Part II: Signals Discipline
Distance is just noise when you've finally found your equal; surviving the quiet of the home front is the hardest task yet.
The view from the third-floor bay window was a wash of gray steel and unrelenting rain. Down on the street, the city was waking up, a mechanical hum of traffic and millions of people rushing to be relevant. It was the kind of international energy Parker had spent his twenties and thirties craving. He used to feed on it—the anonymity of the crowd, the constant noise that drowned out his own thoughts.
Now, he just stared at the wet pavement and felt hollow.
It had been two months since he stepped off the C-17 from Al Udeid. Two months since the oppressive heat of the desert and the heavy, grounding weight of a specific man’s arm across his chest. The transition back to his ‘real life’ hadn't brought relief; it had only exposed the vastness of the empty space he was living in.
He turned his back on the window. The silence inside the apartment was aggressive.
His stuff was stored in a classic brownstone—he refused to think he lived there himself—a place with good bones and history, the kind of place that should feel warm. It was the kind of place designed for a family, or at least a life. But to Parker it was a transit hub. His friends—the few who had actually been past the front door—didn't call it a home. They joked it was ‘Parker’s Black Site.’
They weren't wrong. It was a space designed for logistics, not living. The walls were bare, painted a landlord-neutral white. There were no photos, no plants, no knick-knacks gathering dust. The furniture was sparse: a heavy, dark gray fabric sofa that looked untouched, a solid wooden table, and a stack of ruggedized cases in the corner that served as his primary storage. He lived out of these containers. It was a life designed to be disassembled in fifteen minutes or less.
The living arrangement was not from lack of taste but motivation. He could have made it nice, he knew what he liked and had the money, but he refused to do it for an audience of one. There was no point. After all, Parker was a man of simple tastes—refined, layered, and certainly not fancy. His bare walls weren’t a lack of style; they were a protest against his solitude.
Parker walked to the kitchen island. There were no blinking digital clocks or high-tech espresso machines here. He preferred simplicity. He reached for the battered moka pot—a habit he’d picked up and never shaken during his years stationed in Naples. He filled the base with water, leveled the grounds without tamping, and screwed the top on tight.
He set it on the gas burner and waited. He liked the ritual. No buttons, no software to crash, no pumps to break. Just heat, pressure, and physics.
While the water heated, his eyes drifted to the only corner of the room that held any personality. A small, high-end turntable and a crate of vintage vinyls sat on the floor next to a guitar case. The case was covered in stickers from venues that didn't exist anymore. He hadn't opened it in months. He stared at it for a second, a phantom rhythm thrumming in his fingers, before the hiss of the coffee pot snapped him back to the grid.
He poured the coffee, black and thick like oil, and took a sip. It burned, grounding him.
He moved to the table where a single manila folder lay waiting. He didn't need to open it; he’d already memorized the contents. It was a brief for a ‘Strategic Fallout Management’ playbook. The client wasn't the State Department or the DoD this time. It was a specific, Tier-1 unit.
It was the only assignment he had agreed to since Qatar. The only one that felt important enough.
The fee was substantial, but Parker hadn't even looked at the number. He traced the edge of the folder with his thumb. He wasn't taking the job for the money. He was taking it because the silence in this apartment had become unbearable. He was taking it because the uncertainty and distance had hollowed him out. He was taking it because he was done with the noise of the city and found himself craving a very specific kind of quiet.
He finished the coffee in three large gulps, washing the cup and placing it in the drying rack immediately.
Time to move.
He walked to the sleeping quarters. The bed was made with hospital corners, the sheets pulled so tight you could bounce a quarter off them. Old habits from the Academy didn't die; they became coping mechanisms.
He grabbed his go-bag from the closet, a nondescript slate-gray duffel that could pass for a gym bag or a diplomatic courier pouch depending on who was looking.
He moved with the efficiency of a man who had done this a thousand times. He slotted the folder into the laptop sleeve to keep it crisp and sharp. Next came the essentials: charcoal shirts, tactical pants folded into tight rolls, spare socks, plus a flannel shirt and jeans in case he encountered civilian life.
He walked to the bathroom and grabbed his dopp kit. Toothbrush and paste. Deodorant. Three amber prescription bottles. One for the joint pain—a daily reminder of his forties and the IED that failed to end him. One for the serotonin levels that kept the abyss at bay. And finally, the sleeping pills he loathed—the chemical 'downers' to match the morning's 'uppers.' He hated how they dulled his operational capacity, but sometimes—most times—the noise in his head simply refused to die on its own.
He packed them away and zipped the bag shut. The sound was sharp, final.
He carried the bag to the entryway, where his boots sat in a neat row on a rubber mat. He never wore shoes past the threshold—a mix of respect for the quarters and a desire to keep the street grit out of his sanctuary. He sat on the small bench, pulled on the boots, and tied the laces tight, feeling the familiar pressure around his ankles.
He stood up, testing the weight of the bag on his shoulder. It felt light. Too light.
He opened the door and paused, his hand on the latch. He looked back at the apartment. It looked exactly as it had when he arrived. Cold. Empty. Ready for the next tenant. There was nothing here to miss.
Parker stepped out into the hallway, leaving the black site behind without a backward glance. He felt anxious for the road ahead, a feeling he hadn’t had in years for any mission.
He had a new objective: to close the distance—to see if his heart and compass were finally pointing true.
- - -
Two months before.
0230.
The time didn't matter. To men like them—Former Naval Intelligence and still active SOF—circadian rhythms were just suggestions, usually ignored. The dark was where the work happened.
Parker woke up pinned.
It was a crushing, suffocating, wonderfully grounding weight. He was trapped under a literal mountain of heat. Brody was sprawled over him and holding him tight—clinging with the comical, hard-core affection of an overgrown koala. He was a heavy, solid mass of muscle that radiated a furnace-like warmth even in the air-conditioned chill of the container. Parker was sweating, his skin slick everywhere it pressed against Brody’s body, but he didn't move to escape. He lay there for a moment, just breathing, feeling the slow, tectonic rise and fall of the man who had claimed him. He liked this more than he should.
He felt clear. Balanced. It was a sensation so rare it was alien. He hadn't needed the chemical 'downer' from his kit to drown out the noise of the JOC. He’d been awake for over thirty hours, sure, and all their physical training had smoked him, but he knew the truth: the 250-pound grounding rod sprawled across his body had done what the pills never could. He felt safe enough to be still.
Then, his stomach growled. A loud, angry protest that vibrated through the silent room.
Brody shifted instantly. There was no grogginess, no blinking confusion. One second he was asleep, the next his eyes were open, clear and alert in the dim light. He looked down at Parker, his face inches away.
They stared at each other. To the rest of the world, these were two stone-faced operators who gave away nothing. But here, in the confidential dark, they were open books. Parker loved how expressive Brody’s face was when he let his guard down. Not a single classified brief had ever managed to provide him transparency like the face he was looking at. He saw the amusement in the crinkle of Brody’s eyes; Brody saw the desperate, hollowed-out hunger in Parker’s expression.
"You're vibrating again," Brody rumbled, his voice a gravelly scrape of sleep and joy.
"That’s my stomach eating itself," Parker whispered back. "I’m famished."
Brody grinned, a wolfish flash of white teeth in the shadows. "You look at me like I’m a steak."
"I might take a bite if you don't move. I need calories."
“Guess the liquid diet wasn't enough," Brody teased, the vibration of his chuckle humming against Parker’s ribs.
Parker rolled his eyes, though he couldn't fight the smirk tugging at his mouth. “You were generous. Firehose generous. But you also worked me hard. I need solids. Real food. Now.”
Brody kissed Parker hard. Morning breath be damned. He was also very interested in food, but loved how Parker was grumpy when hungry. A man after his own heart.
Brody finally rolled off, the loss of his weight leaving Parker instantly cold. The big man sat up, stretching his massive arms overhead, the joints popping like pistol shots. "Yeah. I could eat a horse. Or a camel. Or five MREs. Whichever is closer."
"Let's stick to the DFAC," Parker said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the rack. He felt sticky, coated in the dried sweat of the gym, the salt of the mission, and the bodily remnants of their insurrection. "But we need to scrub first. We can't walk into the chow hall smelling like... this."
Brody leaned in, sniffing Parker’s neck loudly, unashamed. "I like ‘this.' 'This' smells like victory."
"‘This’ smells like a dishonorable discharge if the wrong person catches us," Parker countered, standing up. He felt sore in the best possible way. "Shower. Then food. Then... we figure out the rest."
"Shower," Brody agreed, standing up and looming in the small space, a nude adonis in the shadows. "But don't think you're washing everything away. The truth stays."
Parker looked at him, his heart doing that heavy, expectant beat again. "The truth stays," he promised. "Now move, big guy. Before I start chewing on the furniture.”
The shower stall was a standard-issue plastic coffin, barely wide enough for one man, let alone two of their combined mass. Trying to fit a colossus in would have been hard enough; the plastic stall was rated for a single private, not a mountain of muscle and 210 pounds of Navy steel. The water pressure was pathetic, but the heat was consistent. Parker took the lead, his hands slick with cheap military-grade soap as he began to wash Brody. It was an intimate, caring affair, nothing like a methodical decontamination Parker would do for himself.
He focused on the broad expanse of Brody's back, his thumbs digging into the heavy knots of muscle that had spent decades carrying the weight. He massaged the shoulders and upper back; the man groaned. Once Parker was happy and sure he had gotten all the acreage of skin clean, he kissed the neck and shoulders, moving his hand to scrub the flanks and lower back.
Parker got more soap and moved to the perfect bubble. The glutes were covered in light fur, heavy from all the pushing and running with weight. It was a peach of steel and Parker was enamored by it. He slipped his fingers in between the globes and Brody let out a long breath, leaning more on the wall. Parker was rock hard and fully awake.
“Ok big guy, turn around.”
“Bossy.”
Brody was equally hard. Parker stepped a little closer to get some skin contact for their manhoods. Both men shuddered at the contact. He started from the top. The big man stood with his eyes closed as Parker washed his hair and face gently. Brody whimpered, a sound that had fast become the second favorite to Parker, right after the deep laugh. He moved down to the strong neck, then the pecs that were like armor plates.
Their eyes met. Stormy. Brody was clearly thinking, his heavy brow low. The wolf was back, hungry but not particularly happy—hating the smell of army soap and mourning the end of the dark.
“Don’t think too much, you might hurt yourself.”
Brody grunted.
“I’m scrubbing off the silt, Brian,” Parker murmured, his voice barely audible over the hiss of the water. “Not the rest of it. I wanna see the man under it. The truth is permanent.”
Brody didn’t answer with words. He just leaned his forehead against Parker’s and let out a long, deep breath. They kissed with burning intensity. When they separated Brody had a smirk, Parker knew he was in the best kind of trouble.
The urgency of the previous night had been replaced by something durable and playful. Brody pinned Parker against the stall, his grin crooked. “You asked me to return the favor,” Brody rasped, pushing his head to Parker’s neck and biting hard. It was Parker’s turn to groan in pleasure.
Brody flipped Parker around and pushed his finger in. He was about to make good on the promise he’d made last evening. After three fingers, he finally slid into his partner, claiming Parker. Brody did his best to be gentle and mindful of his size. His whole body was shaking from restraint and anticipation. Parker planted his face on the damp wall and pushed himself back, guiding Brody in and seeking the depth of the impact. After the burn settled, they were at it rough. Brody’s massive paws gripping Parker and leaving bruises, Parker meeting every thrust with his own. The wet slaps were paired with the resonant moans of bliss. This time it was punctuated by quiet laughter and well-rested playful tones, instead of just raw need.
Brody exited, flipped Parker around again and hoisted the man up like 210lbs was nothing. Parker’s hands shot up to hold the beast’s neck and back, legs wrapped round the powerful torso. Brody guided himself back in and impaled Parker again. Parker wasn't in this world anymore, all he could do was frantically ride his warrior. Brody was mesmerized by the tenacity and hunger his partner had for what he could provide. They kissed and let the mutual pleasure wash over their bodies.
The two were connected like true equals. Joined together in a uniform that had nothing to do with the clothes they wore.
Afterward, they stepped out into the humid air of the container, towel-drying with the efficiency of soldiers. Parker reached into his bag and tossed Brody a pair of clean underwear and a charcoal-gray T-shirt.
“The t-shirt is definitely too small for you, but that didn’t seem to be a problem before.”
Watching Brody pull on the gear was a satisfying show in multiple ways. Firstly, the shirt was designed for Parker’s ‘slightly’ leaner frame and not for holding 250lbs of grade A man beast. It strained across Brody’s chest, the seams practically groaning, the hem riding high to expose his glutes. Secondly, Parker liked to see the guy in his shirt and boxers.
Brody stood there, bringing the collar of the shirt to his nose. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closing. “It smells something like you. Just… clean. Soft.” He caught himself and looked up, looking almost sheepish. “That’s probably a weird thing for a guy like me to notice… Your fabric softener?”
Parker smirked, grabbing his own kit. “It’s called having standards, buddy. Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. It’s pretty cute that you’re down this bad.”
Brody groaned, rolled his eyes, but his grin was wide and boyish. He knew he was down bad, way too bad, but nobody was stopping him. “I’m starving. What’re our options at this hour?”
“Vast,” Parker said, checking his watch. “We’ll likely have 'Leftover Mystery Mash,’ or 'Cold Mystery Chicken,' or 'The Bag That Says Calories’. Only the best for my guy at 0300.”
Brody felt a bang inside; it was a strange tightness in his throat—a different kind of 'intake' he wasn't used to. A guy like him shouldn’t feel mushy or drippy. He didn’t remember when he had felt like this. ‘My guy’ would ring in his head for weeks.
He stepped close, giving Parker a quick, domestic peck on the lips—a small act of rebellion against the military structure waiting for them outside. “Come on, smart guy. Let's go raid the stalls.”
- - -
The transition from the air-conditioned chill of the container to the Qatari night was like walking into a wet wool blanket. Even at 0300, the humidity was a physical weight, the air smelling of the desert dust and the distant, salty tang of the Persian Gulf.
They moved through the labyrinth of shipping containers and pre-fab CHUs with the practiced silence of men who got paid to go unnoticed. There was no need to coordinate their pace; they fell into a synchronized stride.
Parker glanced sideways at Brody. The charcoal-gray T-shirt was an absolute casualty of the man’s physique. The shoulder seams were pulled nearly to the breaking point, and the hem barely reached the waistband of his shorts. In the low light of the base lamps, Brody looked less like a soldier and more like some primal force of nature that had been poorly gift-wrapped.
"You're staring again, smart guy," Brody whispered, his voice barely a vibration in the humid air.
"I’m assessing the structural integrity of my property," Parker countered dryly. "I’m not sure that shirt is going to survive the trip to the DFAC."
Brody let out a soft huff of a laugh, the sound grounding Parker instantly. "It’s tight. But I like it since it’s yours. You are not getting it back.”
They reached the 24-hour grab-and-go annex of the Dining Facility. It was a dimly lit, industrial space that smelled of floor wax. A lone, exhausted-looking airman sat behind the counter, scrolling through a phone, a radio humming quietly with base traffic in the background.
Parker stepped forward, instinctively sliding back into his ‘Officer’ persona—shoulders back, face a mask of polite but absolute authority. Brody hovered a half-step behind his six, a massive, silent shadow.
"Morning," Parker said, his voice smooth and commanding. "My colleague and I just wrapped a shift. We’re in desperate need of some calories."
The airman looked up, eyes widening slightly as they took in the scruffy contractor and the sheer, mountain-sized reality of the man standing behind him in the too-small T-shirt. The airman didn’t ask for ID. He didn't ask about the dress code. He just gestured vaguely toward the warming racks and the industrial fridges.
"Take whatever you want, sir. We’re restocking in two hours anyway."
The 'Raid' was efficient.
Parker grabbed a single brown paper bag, sliding in a couple of pre-wrapped sandwiches and a bottle of water. He was "hangry," but his discipline held. Brody, however, was operating on a different scale of caloric necessity. He moved through the station like a harvester. Three bags were filled in rapid succession: two breakfast burritos, hard-boiled eggs, yogurt parfaits, and every protein puck he could lay his hands on.
"Don't judge," Brody muttered, shooting Parker a quick, sheepish grin as he tucked the third bag under his arm. “I’m a big boy."
“Now that certainly hasn't escaped me," Parker whispered, leaning in just enough for his shoulder to brush Brody’s arm. "I’m not judging. I'm impressed.”
"We're not eating in here," Brody stated, scanning the doors. "Too busy for the occasion.”
They stepped back out into the heat, the heavy paper bags crinkling in the silence.
Parker looked up at the sky. The horizon was still pitch black, and the stars were brilliant, cutting through the haze of the desert. "I know a spot. Secluded. Good lines of sight."
"Lead the way," Brody said, a challenge in his voice. "Let's see if you can find your way in the dark.”
Parker led the way toward the edge of the logistics yard, far from the floodlights of the main thoroughfares. He stopped at a cluster of double-stacked shipping containers that had been reinforced with Hesco barriers—massive, sand-filled wire cages. A rusted steel ladder was bolted to the side of the upper unit.
"The roof?" Brody asked, the crinkle of his three paper bags punctuating the question.
"Best sightlines on the base," Parker said, already halfway up the rungs. "And no one comes up here except the guys checking the AC compressors, and they won't be back until the sun starts cooking."
Brody followed, moving with that improbable, silent grace that never ceased to fascinate Parker. They reached the top, a flat expanse of corrugated steel that was still radiating a faint, residual heat from the day before. Parker sat on the edge of the container, dangling his legs over the side. Brody joined him, the container groaning slightly as his 250-pound frame settled in.
The silence here was different. It wasn't the pressurized hush of the CHU; it was open and vast. The bright lights of the base didn’t reach their hiding spot. Above them, the sky was a deep, velvet canopy, the stars burning with a piercing clarity that only the desert could provide.
Parker inhaled his first sandwich.
Brody was even faster with his first burrito. The foil crinkled constantly under the assault and sheer speed of a Tier-1 operator fueling.
They ate mostly in silence. With the second sandwich gone, Parker observed the surroundings, no longer looking at his food. He looked up, his chin tilting back. His eyes sharpened, high above was Orion the Hunter.
“Orion,” Brody stated, knowing what Parker was looking at.
“Yeah, one of my favorites.”
"Alright," Brody said, his voice a low rumble as he unpacked his second breakfast burrito. "Where are we? Aside from 'lost in the desert.'"
"We’re at 25 degrees North," Parker began, his voice taking on a rhythmic quality. "That bright point low on the horizon is Fomalhaut. It’s a loner, no big constellations around it. If you keep your eye on it and follow the arc up to the left, you hit the Great Square of Pegasus."
Brody stopped chewing, his gaze following Parker’s pointing finger. "I know Pegasus. Square. Legs. High-speed horse."
Nautical navigation was all about finding the fixed points in a moving world; Parker loved it. "If you can find Polaris, you have your North. But if you’re on the water—or in a flat desert like this—you use the stars to shoot an azimuth. You don't just see a picture; you see a grid. You see time and distance mapped out in light."
Brody turned his head to look at Parker’s profile. In the starlight, the angles of Parker’s face were sharp, his expression one of total, calm focus. "I spent my time in the Land Nav through jungles and mountains. Terrain association. You find a ridge, you find a river, you know where you are. But here..." Brody looked at the flat, featureless horizon. "There’s no terrain to associate with.” His gaze shifting back to Parker. “The sky is the only terrain that doesn't lie."
Parker hummed. ”It's honest," he added.
They sat there for a few minutes, geeking out over the Summer Triangle—Vega, Deneb, and Altair. They argued briefly over the declination of Altair, their voices low and intense, finding a strange comfort in the cold, unyielding math of the universe. It was a conversation between two masters of their craft, a moment where the ‘Smart Guy’ and the ‘Wolf’ found a shared language that had nothing to do with violence and everything to do with finding their way home.
The silence that followed wasn't tactical anymore; it was comfortable but leaning towards expectant. Brody remembered the promise the other man had made in the chow hall. Parker had wanted to hear his story.
"Twenty years," Brody said, his voice dropping into that heavy, solemn baritone that seemed to vibrate through the corrugated steel they were sitting on. "I spent twenty years becoming the most efficient version of myself the government could build. Always moving up. Always looking for the next door to kick in."
He looked down at his hands, spreading them flat against his thighs. Even in the dark, the scars were visible—reminders of a lifetime of recoil and rope burns.
"The guys... the team... they’re my family. They know everything. In a unit like ours, there’s no room for secrets. If you can’t trust a man with who he is, you can't trust him with your life. They know I’m bi. They don't care. They just care that I can still clear a room and get them back in one piece."
He let out a short, dry huff of a laugh. "But the world outside... that's the part that doesn't quite fit. I tried the civilian version of a life. I tried the guys. I tried the girls. I tried the ‘suburban dream’ thing."
"And?" Parker asked softly.
"I was always 'too much,’" Brody muttered, his heavy brow lowering. "Too intense. I tried to become smaller, but I became a ghost. Too silent. When I was present, I was too much pressure. Too big for the room. Women... they wanted a protector, but they didn't want the man that came with it. Not the ‘too intense’ guy who can’t turn off…” He went silent. He was deep in his head.
Parker heard the hurt in his voice. The feeling of betrayal by the world.
He turned to look at Parker, his dark eyes searching for a frequency he hadn't found in years. "I’m forty-one. My knees are a mess, my back is held together by stubbornness, and I’m reaching the end of my operational lifespan. In a few years, they are going to tell me I’m obsolete. And I’m terrified."
Parker knew. He nodded. And pressed his leg to Brody’s.
"Of being just another big guy sitting at a bar, reliving the glory days of ‘my first life’ because I have nowhere else to go. I’ve been on my own for so long, treating my body like a utility... I forgot what it was like to want to be human… to be cherished.”
He stopped, the raw honesty of the word hanging in the thin desert air. He looked away, back toward the horizon.
"I watched my squad get married, one by one. I watched them build lives I didn't know how to ask for. So I stopped looking. I started to think I was just built for the war and nothing else. That I'd just... eventually break, and that would be it."
"Then I happened to throw a show," Parker said, his voice a steady anchor.
“Yeah… Then you barged in," Brody agreed, a small, boyish smile flickering on his face. "And yesterday… With you… I felt like someone saw the man, not the machine. Someone who wasn't afraid of the intensity.”
Parker pressed their legs harder together. He nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. His eyes were a single second away from being misty. He knew the hurt. He had felt the loneliness.
“I’m still terrified to show you me. What if you, too, think I’m too much?”
“Bring it on, Brian,” Parker croaked, his throat tight.
The wind shifted, blowing a stray strand of hair across Parker’s eyes. He didn’t brush it away. He was still focused on the warmth of Brody’s leg against his—the thing keeping him grounded firmer than gravity itself.
"I didn't spend twenty years kicking doors,” Parker said, his voice sounding thin in the vastness. “I was intelligence first. The last ten I’ve spent in various rooms. Briefing rooms. War rooms. Rooms with no windows and too much air conditioning. I was the 'Golden Boy.' Promoted early, fast-tracked for the top—a trajectory that made it impossible to admit I was gasping for air."
He looked up at the stars, his eyes tracking the grid he’d described earlier.
“Then the IED… that was close to being the end of me… I suppose it was, for my ‘first life.’ It left me with a medal and knees that scream every time the pressure drops. But the aftermath… I went back into the machine, but I couldn't breathe anymore. I was drowning."
"Drowning in what?" Brody asked, his voice a low rumble.
"The lies," Parker admitted, the word tasting like ash. “The system. The dishonesty. It’s a filthy habit. I was selling my soul one memo and one plan at a time. My ethics, my clarity, my truth… I was trading them all for a career. I couldn't say 'no.' I didn't know how. I just couldn’t breathe in a room full of it all anymore."
Parker let out a long, shaky exhale. "I had to get out. I was severely depressed. I thought the civilian world would be the air I needed to breathe.”
“Was it?"
Parker laughed, a sharp, jagged sound devoid of any humor. "I tried.”
He was silent for a moment. It was still hard to talk about it.
“I went to the grocery store once. A simple task, right? I stood in the pasta aisle for twenty minutes, staring at forty different kinds of tomato sauce. Red on red on red. I couldn't move or breathe. The noise of it—the choices, the mundane survival of it all—it felt like a panic attack. I realized I had all the skills to navigate a war zone or a Senate hearing, but I couldn't navigate a Tuesday evening. I didn't have anyone to cook for… I didn't have any reason to choose a sauce… All the options… All the things I could have done, but I had no one to make them for. ”
He turned to Brody, his expression raw and unpolished.
"I have my share of people I've seen, men and women. Dates. Brief encounters. But nothing ever held any gravity. It was all noise. No frequency.”
He looked down, swallowed hard.
“I’ve got it mostly under control now. I mean, I’m not constantly drowning anymore. Yet, I’ve been living in my place for two years, and I haven't even unpacked my kitchen.” A dry laugh. “I’m just feeding a machine, not a home. I use delivery because standing in a store reminds me that I’m…” His voice died, the hurt of it all too raw.
He reached out, his calloused fingers hesitating before resting on the back of Brody’s hand.
"Yesterday, with you, all the constant noise in my head just… stopped. For the first time in years, I felt grounded. I felt like I’d finally found someone who could… maybe be… to lean on.” Parker looked at Brody’s fingers. “And someone whose burdens are meaningful to carry.”
Brody’s hand flipped over, lacing his fingers through Parker’s, his grip a silent, massive affirmation.
"You're not drowning now, Paul," Brody whispered.
"No," Parker agreed, "Not now.”
Brody closed the distance. He cupped Parker’s face and kissed deep in the darkness.
They stayed silent.
The sky was no longer just an abyss. The bruised purple of the very early morning was beginning to bleed across the eastern horizon. The stars were losing their piercing clarity, fading one by one into the encroaching light.
Brody was the first to move. His vigilance was a clock that never needed winding. He got up, the crinkle of the empty paper bags a harsh sound in the quiet. He looked at the horizon, then back at Parker. The ‘Operator’ was returning, the tactical mask sliding back into place, but his eyes were still soft around the edges.
"The day is coming," Brody said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "I need to be at my unit before they wake up. I need to 'wake up' in my own rack."
Parker got up beside him, feeling the sudden, sharp chill of the desert air as their contact broke. The warmth of Brody’s leg was gone, replaced by the reality of the logistics yard. He felt the weight of the morning—the return of the ‘Officer,’ the ‘Contractor,’ and the masks these two carried.
"I know," Parker said, his voice steady. He reached down and grabbed the empty bags, folding them with precise, mechanical movements. "Maintain the signal. Don't be a stranger, big guy.”
Brody stayed still, his massive frame a dark silhouette against the graying sky. He took Parker’s hand, his thumb brushing over the knuckles—a final, private transmission.
"I don't know how to do this part," Brody admitted, his voice a hushed rumble. "The 'acting' part. Everything is going to be hectic today. I’m not used to feeling this... bright."
Parker smiled, a small, weary expression. "You’re an operator. You have a PhD in violence. You’ve spent your life hiding in plain sight. Just treat it like any other deployment. The mission is us. Everything else is just noise."
Brody nodded, the logic grounding him. "The mission is us. Copy that."
He stepped toward the ladder, pausing at the top rung. He looked back at Parker, who was standing at the edge of the container, silhouetted by the first pale hints of gold.
"I’ll see you in the JOC," Brody said. “Sir,” emphasized with a sloppy salute.
The title was a joke, a tease, and a shield all at once. Parker smirked, acknowledging the game. "Watch your six, soldier.”
Parker kept his eyes on the man descending. Brody hit the ground with the silence of a ghost and vanished into the shadows between the containers without a backward glance.
Parker stayed on the roof a little longer. He watched the horizon turn from gray to gold, then to the unyielding, clinical white of the Qatari sun. He felt the first rays hit his skin—the suffocating heat turning back on. It was the return of the world that required a mask to breathe.
He climbed down the ladder, his knees screaming a reminder of his first life. He headed toward his own container, his mind already beginning to build the walls he’d need for the day ahead. But as he walked, he didn't feel the drowning sensation. He felt the weight of Brody’s arm across his memory, a heavy, grounding pressure that told him the axis had truly tilted.
He wasn't a contractor anymore. He was a man with a defense pact. And he was looking forward to the fight.
- - -
By 0800, the ‘Confidential Dark’ was a memory. The JOC was back to its clinical, blue-lit hum, the air-conditioning working overtime to strip the desert from the air.
Parker had been in since 0530. His timing had worked just like he’d planned; get the draft out, let it marinate and jump back in when everyone had had their time to process. He’d read through all the feedback and pointers he’d gotten for his draft from state-side. Adjusted the plan accordingly.
He was also, for once, well caffeinated.
Now Parker stood at the center of a glass-walled conference room. He was a different man than the one who had climbed down from a shipping container about four hours ago. He had tamed his beard to a reasonable stubble, his longer-than-regulatory hair was perfectly swept back, and he wore a crisp button-down that fit his shoulders. The ‘Wild Man’ was gone; the ‘Conductor’ had arrived.
Inside the room were three men who held the future of the Khuzestan op in their hands: Brigadier General Miller and two colonels. One was the staff officer from yesterday; the other was a man Parker had met only briefly—Colonel Rogers, the commander of the SOF element.
Rogers was a block of granite in his uniform, his eyes wary and sharp. He looked like a man who was used to being lied to by contractors.
“I’ve discussed your draft with USSOCOM and Langley, multiple times,” Miller said. That was to be expected, Parker had been in the loop for the comments. Miller looked exhausted. He wasn’t an asshat, in times like these he was fighting for his unit as well as his career. Parker knew; Miller was just a man trying to keep a sinking ship level while the waves were made of classified ink and political optics. “The problem is DC. They’re leaning toward the 'tactical hesitation' narrative. It’s clean. It’s contained."
“That’s bullshit," Rogers rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. He looked at Parker with blatant suspicion. "And it puts my men in the crosshairs of a CID investigation just to save some careers higher up."
Parker didn't flinch when he said, “And it doesn’t really solve anything. It doesn’t make the problem go away.”
He leaned against the table. “General, colonels, SOF teams are usually shielded from all this.” He shifted his focus to Rogers. “You’re usually protected because you’re expensive and hard to replace—the best. But this isn't a usual case. This was Unconventional Warfare. Like Syria in ’24. The problem is the location, this is not a failed state. We were inside the borders of a very tough and sovereign adversary. Officially, your men weren't in the country. Officially, the casualties don't exist yet. So given the stakes everybody outside these walls just wants to run away from this. As far as possible. As fast as possible. For them cutting all ties is an easy way out. It is currently a very appealing option to those who live for public opinion and elections.”
Parker looked at Miller, then back to Rogers. “Luckily, we don't have a downed helo to make magically go away like the Eagle Claw in '80, but we have bodies and we have leaked telemetry. If DC calls this a strategic failure, they have to admit someone authorized an illegal presence across the border. If they call it a tactical error by the team... the 'Strategic Integrity' of the administration remains intact."
"And my men get burned," Rogers snapped.
"Not if we are smarter than the easiest option,” Parker said, his voice dropping into that smooth, authoritative tone. "I’m not here to fight the fire; there’s a team for that. I’m here to provide strategic depth. We aren't going to turn the narrative ninety degrees—we’re going to pivot it. We reframe it."
Miller stopped his pacing. "To what?"
“To intelligence validation. The local guerrilla forces had been compromised by a third-party adversary—likely the same ones who leaked the op's motives," Parker explained. "Your team didn't stall because they were soft, Rogers. They stalled because they were the only ones smart enough to realize the 'friendlies' had flipped before the first shot was fired. They stayed to confirm the breach. They didn't lose the mission; they saved us from a total intelligence blackout."
The silence in the room shifted. It wasn't the defensive silence of the morning before. It was the silence of men realizing they had just been handed an insurance policy.
“If we get DC to align with this, there’s no need for any CID involvement or Senate hearings. And DoD gets to throw the usual Glomar responses to the press, and the whole thing stays in the shadows where it belongs,” Parker concluded.
Rogers leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he re-evaluated the man in the crisp shirt. He’d seen contractors tell their stories before, but this wasn’t just a spin. It was a shield. It placed the competence of his operators at the center of the success story, rather than the failure.
"You’re saying we make the 'truth' an asset," Rogers said.
"I'm saying we look at the situation from a different angle. We use the honesty of the men on the ground to fix the strategic dishonesty of the situation," Parker countered. "It gives Miller his clean report, it gives DC their ‘winning story,' and it keeps your men from being scapegoats. It’s mutually beneficial."
Miller let out a breath that sounded like a tire losing air. He looked at Parker with something resembling genuine gratitude. "How fast can you have the brief ready for the Secretary?"
"The framework is done," Parker said, checking his watch. It was 0815 at the Gulf, meaning the day had just shifted in DC. "I need two hours to align the right evidence. We’ll have everything at the Secretary’s desk by the time he walks in for his morning coffee.” Parker paused and added with a smirk, “Or, if Miller wants to be dramatic, we can wake him up.”
Rogers stood up, his massive frame nearly as imposing as Brody's. He offered a curt, respectful nod to Parker. "My teams vouched for you. Said you had a spine. I didn't believe them. I do now."
Parker felt a jolt at the mention of the teams, but his face remained a mask of professional clarity. “Colonel, let’s get to work."
Outside the glass, in the main bay of the JOC, Brody stood leaning at a server rack. He could see Parker through the glass. He couldn't hear the words, but he could see the sharp-eyed ‘Eagle.’
- - -
Brody slipped back into his CHU at 0445. The gray light of the dawn was just beginning to ghost over the metal siding of the units. He moved like a shadow, his boots clicking softly on the floor as he approached his rack. He stripped off his gym shorts, intending to slide under the thin wool blanket and pretend he’d been there all night.
“Oh, so you are still alive?”
Brody froze, his blanket halfway up his legs. Mack, his second-in-command, was sitting up, rubbing a hand over his buzzed scalp. Mack was a man who slept with one eye open and a mental clock that was never wrong.
"Went for a walk," Brody grunted.
"A walk,” Mack repeated. “Huh, must have been a hell of a 12-hour trek… I was leaning towards an alien abduction.”
“An alien what now?”
“Abduction. You know—from outer space. Thought they’d picked a fine specimen like you for their collection or some shit.”
Brody grunted.
“We had a little pool going ’bout your ‘busy schedule.’” He leaned over the edge of his bunk, his eyes narrowing as they caught the waistband of Brody’s underwear. "Since when do you wear high-end synthetics? And those are definitely not your underwear. Sure as hell didn't come from the PX.”
Brody didn’t blink. He stared right back. "Since when did you start keeping a catalog of my wardrobe, Mack? You looking for fashion tips or do you just have a weird thing for my laundry?"
Mack let out a short, sharp snort. "I don’t care if you’re wearing a silk thong, Boss, as long as you’re on the line at 0700 and do your part. But those definitely aren't yours."
"Get some sleep, Mack," Brody muttered, pulling the blanket up.
He wasn’t ashamed, and there was no malice behind Mack’s remarks—just the usual shit he had to endure daily. He was defensive and protective of the truth that felt still so fragile. He was guarding a treasure that belonged only to him in that CHU.
He lay there, the secret weight of Parker’s shirt still tight across his chest. It smelled right. Not the base, not the mission—just the clean, sharp scent of the man who had grounded him. He closed his eyes and let the warmth hum in his blood for exactly ninety minutes.
By 0700, the Operator was back in the harness.
The second day after an extraction was always the worst. The first day was for crashing—the ‘survival high’ bleeding out into a dark, heavy sleep. But the second day was the ‘Paperwork Tax.’ Brody was working hard to be the best version of himself he could and earn his place in the unit everyday; a master of close combat, ballistics and small-unit tactics, etc. But he was also, in his own words, the most clichéd version of a soldier possible: he hated computers, and he loathed paperwork.
Unusually for him, he started with the easy tasks. He needed signatures from the JOC, so he filled the papers in question and headed there. He knew his real motivations.
He didn't walk to the Operations Center; he prowled. His gear felt too tight, his skin felt like it was buzzing again. He needed to see his remedy.
At 0805, he took his time in the Operations Center. He found the man through the glass of the conference room.
The sight stopped Brody by a server rack; his eyes locking on him. Parker was standing at the head of the table. He looked... incredible. The scruffy, worn man from the last night had been replaced by a razor-sharp strategic weapon.
Brody watched the way Parker controlled the room. He saw the General deflate and his own commanding officer Colonel Rogers nod in reluctant respect. He saw the way the light caught the sharp, angular planes of Parker’s face. The man was a predator just like him, and Brody wanted, needed, to be the only thing that man was hunting.
Brody watched the way Parker’s jaw moved when he spoke. He watched the way the crisp fabric of his shirt strained when he leaned over the table—not a "mountain" like Brody, but a sleek, muscled, and dangerous efficiency that made Brody’s mouth go dry. Unmistakably masculine. Parker moved with the fluid grace of a man that didn't need to growl to be heard. Brody could almost feel the phantom heat of that skin against his own, even through the glass.
He absolutely loved how Parker could take everything he had to give. There wasn’t any need to tone himself down or be wary of being too much or too strong. The unity of it all was exhilarating.
God, he's beautiful, Brody thought. Sharp eyes, sharp mind, and that mouth...
He remembered the way that mouth had felt on his scars and around his tool. How perfect it was when the man had filled him. How tight his body felt around him… Brody swallowed hard. The contrast between the ‘Spin-Doctor’ in the glass room and the ‘Honest Man’ in the dark was a voltage Brody wasn't prepared for. He was drawn towards the man’s capacity to be both so effortlessly.
He remembered the man who had groaned into his neck a few hours ago, the man who had looked at the stars, talked about his demons and finding a way home. Seeing that man now—this lethal, intellectual version who was currently dismantling a General’s fear—sent a surge of heat through Brody that made his own gear too tight.
Parker glanced out of the glass for a split second. His eyes didn't linger, and his expression didn't change, but Brody felt their ‘Frequency’ hum.
I see you, the look said. The mission is us.
It was a signal that ignored the vacuum of the JOC, a bone-deep certainty that despite the noise in the room, they were human.
He had gotten what he came for, the signatures and mostly ogling, but he couldn’t just sulk there for the whole day.
The next hours were spent at his unit, hunched over a ruggedized laptop, his massive fingers feeling like sausages on the keys. He had to fill out the ‘Material Loss’ forms—accounting for every flashbang, every round of 5.56, and the two thermal optics that had been smashed during the hasty retreat. Then it was time to push some more paper, the ‘Trip Report.’ He fought the urge to just type a TripAdvisor review into the official record: “Khuzestan—0/5 stars. Hard beds, unfriendly locals, wouldn’t recommend.” Instead, he dutifully logged his version of the exfil—a dry, clinical account.
All of that was soul-crushing work, a digital reminder of the ‘steaming shit pile’ Parker was currently somewhere trying to fix.
By noon, he had an excuse to move; food.
He grabbed another go-bag from the DFAC. The table drew his attention. The distant corner where they had met just some 24-hours ago. It felt odd, so insignificant in a factual sense, yet something so profound, like some universal or ancient truth. He was still mildly mortified by his blunt blurting; he was a grown man and among the deadliest, but something about Parker had instantly reduced a Tier-1 operator into a babbling teenager. After all, it had worked out great for him. So sue him, he was feeling great. What was it about this man that made him so flustered and pulled the honesty out of him so effortlessly?
He knew he didn’t need to hold back. The man could take it all. To him, it was the pinnacle of equality.
Brody turned away, and headed back to his unit. He was feeling lighter, almost hopeful—until he walked into the team room and saw Colonel Rogers standing there with a manifest in his hand.
“The good news: first, DC finally got their heads straight. We’re being ghosted.” Rogers said, his voice flat. “Second, pack it up, guys, our job is done, C-17 is on the tarmac. We’re wheels up in three hours.”
The hope in Brody’s chest died an instant death. He felt the sulk settle in—a heavy, dark weight.
"Three hours?" Brody asked, his voice a low rumble.
“ASAP," Rogers said. "We're going back to the home station. No more fun and games in the sand."
Brody turned toward his gear, his jaw tight. His budding hopes had just hit a wall called the U.S. Military, and he didn't even have time to say goodbye.
- - -
By 1400, Parker was deep in the ‘Dancing Monkey’ phase of his work.
He had finalized the dossier, cross-referencing the telemetry and other evidence with the new ‘Intelligence Validation’ framing until it was airtight. In an exceptionally high-stakes fiasco like this, shifting the focus from tactical errors to strategic strengths took time and relentless convincing; the human mind naturally fixated on failure, which was why the ‘ground element failed’ narrative had gained ground so fast.
Now, he had to be the sales-guy and the nanny to a bunch of big egos. He spent his day terrorizing the sleep of his ABH partner back in the States, moving on to a few key Senators, the State Department, and finally the West Wing’s National Security Advisor. Miller and USSOCOM—the military machine—would handle the DoD, but the rest of the ‘swamp’ belonged to Parker. He did his sales pitch over and over on secure lines and satellite phones, making them see their own benefit in his version of the truth.
By late afternoon, he had pivoted to the final phase: sending out the classified summaries. He was exhausted, subsisting on black coffee and dry protein bars, but he felt the grim satisfaction of a job well done. He had brought some sense to it all, brought a discordant orchestra back into tune.
He walked back into the JOC from his secure ‘phone booth.’ The room was the usual low hum.
Then, he happened to glance up at the main JOC array.
His heart stopped. The scrolling log of unit movements showed the SOF element as Dispatched—Awaiting Transit. He checked the details, his hands suddenly cold. The ground element was due to be wheels up in forty-five minutes.
The victory he’d just built turned to ash in his mouth. He tumbled into his chair, feeling numb and defeated. The success felt like a betrayal. His laptop sat closed, his tablet untouched; he couldn't find the focus to finish the task.
The ‘Officer’ in him demanded he stay at his station. The summaries were the final nail needed—but the man inside him—the one who had been held and grounded only hours before—demanded a different mission.
Parker, who had finally found solid ground on the horizon after years of drifting on the open ocean, demanded he witness the anchor being lifted.
Fuck it.
He abandoned his post. He didn't ask for permission. He informed the floor lead he needed a JOC-designated vehicle and was gone before anyone could check anything.
He had thirty minutes.
He reached the airfield and parked in the shadows of a maintenance hangar, staring through the chain-link perimeter fence. The flight line was a blur of heat-haze and activity. He watched the C-17 Globemaster, its massive ramp lowered like a gaping maw.
Parker searched the silhouettes of the men moving gear. He didn't have binoculars, but he didn't need them. He recognized the "one-man armored column" instantly. Brody’s massive frame was distinct even from a hundred yards away—a heavy, purposeful shape in the desert sun.
The engines began their low, chest-thumping growl. The ramp closed, sealing the "Wolf Pack" inside the belly of the beast. Parker watched the plane taxi, then accelerate. The roar of the four engines rattled him deeper than he cared to admit, a physical vibration that felt like it was tearing the shared and secret ‘frequency’ right out of his chest.
He watched the C-17 lift off, banking toward the horizon until it was just a speck in the blistering blue of the Qatari sky.
Here, in the lonely shade of the hangars, Parker made his silent vows. His only solace was that amidst the cold logistics of war, one person had witnessed the man taking off—not a weapon system, not a line item, but Brian.
Parker stood there until the initial shock began to recede. He had no way of contacting Brody directly, and no reason to do so over official channels. But he knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that he wasn't going to stop until he was standing at the man’s front door. He didn't care how deep under heavy classifications Brody’s personal details were buried. He’d find a way.
He returned to the JOC an hour later. He sat at his station, moving with the mechanical stiffness of a ghost. The room felt lonelier than any room had ever felt in his life. His presence felt utterly purposeless. That was a shock to him, he didn’t carry his feeling into these rooms. However, he couldn’t deny it; he wanted, ached, to be buried under the 250 lbs of heat, comfort, and raw honesty. What was it about this man that made him feel so wounded now, yet so grounded only hours ago?
He forced himself to open his laptop to finish the summaries.
As the lid opened, he saw it. A small, jagged piece of paper tucked into the corner of the keyboard. He didn't recognize the handwriting—it was hurried, a rough scrawl—but the meaning was unmistakable.
It was a phone number. No name. No unit. Just a digital lifeline left in the wake of the storm.
- - -
The brownstone was exactly as Parker had left it: cold, quiet, and wearing the thin, hollow air of a space that hadn't been lived in. He dropped his go-bag by the door, but he didn’t kick off his boots. He just stood by the door, listening to the aggressive silence of his ‘Black Site.’
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the jagged piece of paper. His fingers traced the scrawl of the phone number one last time before he pulled out his phone. He didn’t overthink the narrative. He didn’t spin it. He just typed:
Don’t be a stranger, big guy.
He hit send and watched the little bubble vanish into the ether. Then, he sat on his dark gray sofa and waited for the usual drowning sensation to return.
The next two weeks were a blur of mechanical tasks. Parker took care of the follow-up for the Khuzestan op with his usual precision. He handled the final touches to the State Department, ensured the generals and colonels had their "Intelligence Success" labels, and then he stopped.
He turned down lucrative new contracts—one in London, two in D.C. The partners at ABH were confused, but Parker didn't explain. He was craving a very specific kind of peace he’d only experienced for a few hours in Qatar, and he knew he wouldn't find it in a briefing room.
It was like he’d unconsciously decided it was time to move on and make room for something new.
The worry was a constant, low-level current in his marrow. Had the connection survived the flight home? Was it just the adrenaline of the mission? The high-voltage discharge of two lonely men in the sand box?
Brody’s response had come three days after the first text.
Copy that. You too, smart guy.
Parker had smiled at the screen. It was minimalist. Tactical. It suited them both fine; neither was the type to trade emojis or text extensively. They were maintaining signal discipline.
One evening, a friend from his ‘First Life’—a former Navy colleague—called to check in. "I’m having a dinner thing on Friday. There’s someone I want you to meet. She’s a lawyer, smart, does a lot of pro-bono work. She’s... easy. I think you need easy right now."
Parker stared at the bare white wall of his kitchen. The world was offering the ‘Picket Fence’ to him on a silver platter. An easy life. A soft and silky touch. A woman who wouldn't have night terrors or scars from IEDs. A life where he didn't have to worry about wheels-up times or classification levels.
"I’m not looking for easy, Jim," Parker said softly. "But thanks."
He hung up, the solitude of the apartment feeling less like a cage and more like a staging area. He realized then that he was done with it all. He wanted the weight, the gravity, the capacity. He wanted Brian.
He craved his anchor. The grounding connection.
A few days later, at 2300, his phone vibrated. Not a text. A call.
Parker answered on the first ring. "Yeah."
“Hey… um… pal… Paul?” Brody’s voice was a low, rough rumble that made the hair on Parker’s arms and neck stand up. “You awake?"
“Always for you.”
They talked for hours. It wasn't about specific topics or anything particularly important. Still, it was a warm, jagged exchange of thoughts—half-confessions and half-challenges, laced with jokes. Parker got to hear that deep laugh again, god that still flipped him over inside.
They talked about the noise in their heads and the way the civilian world felt like a poorly dubbed movie. They talked until the physical distance between them felt nonexistent. Dismantling the tension the distance had created piece by piece. It was slowly replaced by the ‘Foundational Silence’ they had discovered in the container.
"I can't shut it off tonight, needed to hear your voice,” Brody whispered, his voice sounding small, weary. "The current... it’s running… it’s too much right now.”
"I've got you, Brian," Parker said, leaning his head against the cool glass of his window. "Stay on the line. I’m right here."
They didn't hang up. They lay in their respective beds, hundreds of miles apart, connected by a tiny speaker and a shared connection.
"I've got the watch," Parker whispered into the dark, a silent promise to the man on the other end. "I'm holding you.” A low baritone whimper vibrated through the speaker. Parker listened to the rhythmic, heavy drone of Brody’s breathing as the big man finally drifted off.
He stayed awake until the sun began to bleed through the rain clouds over the city, keeping watch over the signal until it was time to deploy.
- - -
Present day.
Parker pulled the heavy oak door of the brownstone shut, the click of the lock echoing in the damp morning air. He didn't look back.
The rain was a steady, cold drizzle now, turning the street into a river of blurred headlights and dark asphalt. He walked to the curb, his boots clicking with a rhythmic, military precision that the city’s chaos couldn't touch. A black sedan was idling at the corner, its wipers swiping away the gray world outside.
He checked his phone—a notification from the ride-share app. Then, he let the screen go dark. Signal discipline.
He slid into the back seat, the door thudding shut and sealing him into a new kind of silence. This one didn’t feel oppressive like the weeks he had spent alone; it felt pressurized, like the quiet before a launch.
The driver nodded a greeting, and the car pulled away from the curb, merging into the waking hum of the city. Parker looked out the window as the brownstone vanished into the mist. For two years, that building had been his bunker, a place to hide from the drowning sensation. It was another coordinate to navigate through—he was leaving it behind.
He rested his hand on his go-bag, his fingers brushing the laptop sleeve where the briefing dossier sat. He knew the parameters of the contract. He knew the ‘Fallout Insurance’ he was being paid to create. But he also knew that his deployment was different.
His professional assignment and his private mission were no longer separate tracks. They were about to cohabit, to collide, to merge into a single objective.
He was heading to the home station. He was heading to the source of the frequency.
Parker leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. The city noise faded, replaced by the ghost of a low, gravelly laugh and the memory of a heavy arm across his chest.
Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. While certain real-world government agencies, military branches, and geopolitical entities are referenced, their depiction is entirely fictional and does not represent the actual policies, opinions, or personnel of those organizations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This story explores mature themes, including psychological health and interpersonal relationships, within a fictional military framework.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
