The base never truly sleeps.
Even on a Sunday, there’s movement everywhere — boots on concrete, distant engines, shouted commands carried by the wind. Everything runs on discipline here. Structure. Control.
You walk beside him quietly, matching his pace.
Your exchange father.
Colonel Harris.
Even out of uniform, he carries himself like he never left it.
“You don’t have to stay glued to me,” he says without looking at you. “You’re allowed to look around.”
But you don’t wander far.
This place isn’t yours.
You’re just… visiting.
Watching.
He’d brought you here so you wouldn’t spend another weekend alone in the quiet suburban house, its empty rooms reminding you that this was temporary. That everything was temporary.
Earlier, you’d stood beside him observing training exercises. Young soldiers running drills. Sweat. Precision. Obedience.
They listened when he spoke.
They respected him.
Now, he pushes open a reinforced door and gestures you inside.
“The officers’ break room,” he explains. “Stay close. Don’t touch anything.”
The room smells like coffee and worn leather.
Several officers are already inside. Conversations falter when they see you.
Their eyes flick between you and him — confusion first. Then curiosity. Then something more guarded.
One of them raises an eyebrow.
“Didn’t know you had kids, Colonel.”
“I don’t,” he replies simply. “Exchange student.”
That answers the question.
But it doesn’t erase the attention.
You can feel it — the quiet assessment. Your age. Your posture. Your presence in a place you technically don’t belong.
Colonel Harris moves to pour himself coffee, already at ease.
You stay near the wall.
Silent.
Observing.
Then the door opens again.
And the atmosphere changes instantly.
The man who walks in wears a different uniform. Foreign. Immaculate. Every movement precise without effort.
The insignia is unmistakable.
French Foreign Legion.
The General.
He’d been on base for months now. Long enough that everyone knew his reputation.
Cold.
Calculating.
Unreadable.
A man who never hesitated.
Never faltered.
Never reacted.
The officers straighten slightly when he enters.
Respect.
Fear.
He acknowledges them with a single nod — then his eyes move.
And land on you.
He freezes.
Not subtly.
Not politely.
Completely.
His gaze sharpens, locking onto your face with sudden, unmistakable intensity. Like he’s just seen something impossible.
Something that shouldn’t be here.
Something he knows.
The room goes quiet.
One of the officers notices.
“Sir?”
But the General doesn’t answer.
He takes one slow step closer.
His voice, when he speaks, is quieter than expected.
Careful.
“…You.”
Not a question.
Recognition.
Certain. I