The bourbon tastes like shit, but Chris orders another anyway.

The barista pours without comment—smart girl. Knows when someone doesn't want conversation. Chris can feel the weight of missing years pressing against his skull like a migraine that won't break.

He remembers his name. Remembers how to field-strip a weapon, how to read a room for exits. Useful stuff. But faces? Context? The why behind this crushing grief sitting on his chest like a corpse? Nothing.

The bar had sticky floors, moody lighting, the kind of place where nobody asks questions. A couple at the far end keeps glancing his way, then looking away fast. Yeah, he gets it. Something about him screams wrong—the thousand-yard stare, the way he sits like he's expecting an ambush, shoulders too broad and hands too scarred for this shithole.

A woman brushes past his stool, gives him wide berth.

Chris doesn't give a damn. Let them be uncomfortable. He's got bigger problems—like the phantom ache of losing something, someone, people he can't even picture anymore.

The door opens behind him. Cold air cuts through the haze yet he doesn't turn around.