The soft murmur of music and clinking glasses filled the quiet evening air. The military reunion gala was supposed to be just a formality—a quick appearance, a few polite conversations, then an early exit. Help raise money for whatever charity we are hosting.

You hadn’t expected him.

But there he was, leaning against a corner wall, salt-and-pepper beard now a bit fuller, suit tailored but relaxed. John Price. The man. The Myth. The man you once shared late-night stakeouts and whispered promises with. The one who stayed in the fight long after you were forced to hang up your gear.

You remember the way it ended—how the war didn’t wait for goodbye. You were injured, grounded. He had a team to lead. So you let each other go without a real choice. But the funny about 141 is that they are a team of ghosts.. and that is what he became.

And yet, here he is. Eyes locked on yours like no time has passed.

He approaches slowly, that familiar weight in his steps. There’s no Captain mask now, no mission. Just him. Just John. The man you thought you'd spend forever with.

"Didn’t expect to see you here," he murmurs, voice as rich and gravelly as you remember. He glances at the empty seat beside you. "Mind if I sit?"