Celeste woke before the sun.

  The room held the faint chill of early morning air, filtered through concrete walls that still carried the night’s cool. A thin band of pale light traced the edge of the window, the sky outside hovering in that quiet, breath-held blue that came before dawn decided itself.

  She sat up in one smooth motion and planted her feet on the floor. The soreness in her shoulders spoke of yesterday’s training, a dull reminder rather than an ache. She welcomed it. Familiar sensations grounded her far better than thought ever did.

  Inaria slept like someone who had learned exhaustion early. One arm flung over the edge of the narrow bed, hair tangled, horns angled slightly toward the wall as though even unconsciousness demanded awareness of space. Her breathing came deep and even, chest rising with a faint hitch when she rolled.

  Celeste rose and began her routine. The bed came first—corners squared, blanket pulled tight, pillow aligned with deliberate precision. Each motion carried the quiet comfort of habit, a sequence practiced until it lived beneath thought. By the time she finished, the bed stood crisp and orderly, an island of control in a room shared with chaos.

  She moved to the sink, splashed water on her face, and brushed her teeth with steady strokes. The mirror reflected a woman already awake, eyes clear, posture settled into readiness. The base around them still slept, yet her day had begun long before anyone else would notice it had started.

  A soft sound came from behind her. Fabric shifted. A sharp inhale followed, the kind pulled in through clenched teeth.

  Inaria sat up slowly, one hand pressing against her sternum. The motion carried caution, her face tightening for a heartbeat before smoothing again. The bruise beneath her skin still spoke, a quiet echo of yesterday’s loss.

  Celeste turned, toothbrush set aside. “Easy,” she said, voice low. “You pushed hard last night.”

  Inaria snorted softly and swung her legs off the bed. “You pushed hard.” She rolled her shoulders, wincing again before forcing the stiffness away. “My chest feels like I lost a war with a mountain.”

  Celeste crossed the room and handed her a towel. “Training. Breakfast. Then classes.”

  Inaria’s eyes brightened at the middle word. “Breakfast I like.” She stood, stretching long and ungraceful, joints popping as she reached for the ceiling. “Classes still confuse me.”

  “They stop confusing once you read without help.”

  “That,” Inaria said, flashing a defiant glare, “sounds like victory.”

  She dressed with less care than Celeste, tugging on base-issued clothing that still felt strange against her skin. Her bed remained a mess, blankets twisted, pillow crooked. Celeste glanced at it, then away. Today carried enough weight without adding another correction.

  They stepped into the corridor together. The base stirred around them now—boots against concrete, low voices, the distant metallic clatter of equipment carts rolling into place. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, steady and unyielding.

  Outside, dawn spread across the training yard in soft gold. Dust lifted with each passing group of soldiers warming up, fine grit clinging to boots and pant legs. The air tasted dry and clean, edged with the promise of heat later in the day.

  Celeste and Inaria joined the perimeter of the PT field. Soldiers glanced their way, curiosity mixing with respect and something quieter, harder to name. Horns and ears drew attention everywhere, yet no one spoke out of turn.

  The proctor waited near the track, clipboard tucked under one arm. Sergeant Hargraves carried himself with the relaxed confidence of someone who had seen standards rewritten and survived them anyway. He eyed the two of them with open interest.

  “Same warm-up as yesterday?” he asked.

  Celeste nodded. “Push-ups. Sit-ups. Run.”

  Hargraves blew his whistle.

  They dropped to the ground together. Inaria’s movements carried raw strength, fast and forceful, each push driven by muscle and stubborn will. Celeste’s form flowed smoother, economy guiding each repetition. Sweat gathered quickly, darkening the dust beneath their palms.

  The sit-ups followed, then the run.

  They took off together, feet striking the track with a cadence that drew heads. Wind peeled past them as speed climbed, dust streaming behind like a banner torn loose. Celeste pulled ahead early, pace settling at a controlled thirty-two miles an hour, breath steady, stride measured. Inaria followed, legs pumping hard at twenty-seven, jaw set, eyes locked forward.

  The world narrowed to motion and air.

  Celeste crossed the finish first and slowed, hands resting on her hips as she turned. Inaria arrived moments later, breath sharp, sweat slicking her skin. She bent at the waist, hands braced on her knees, horns angled downward as she dragged air into her lungs.

  Hargraves stared at his stopwatch, then at them. He laughed once, a short bark of disbelief. “At this exact moment,” he said, shaking his head, “gratitude fills my soul that neither of you belong to the United States Army.”

  Inaria straightened, scowling. “Why?”

  She tapped one horn. “These?”

  Celeste tilted her head and gestured at her ears. “Those?”

  Hargraves held up both hands. “Neither. You set standards no one survives. Paperwork alone would bury me.”

  Inaria blinked, then laughed, the sound sharp and bright. “I accept this.”

  They moved off the track together, cooling down as soldiers resumed their routines. Celeste spotted familiar figures approaching across the yard—two shapes moving slower, one unsteady.

  Mike leaned into his stride like gravity argued with him personally. A brown shirt clung to his shoulders, dog tags glinting faintly at his chest. A beer can rode loose in one hand, empty now, crushed between his fingers.

  Michelle walked beside him, damp hair pulled back hastily, fatigue shadowing her eyes. She scanned the field, attention snapping into place when she saw the two women.

  “Training finish?” Mike called, voice carrying easy warmth.

  Inaria lifted her chin proudly. “We ran fast.”

  “I noticed,” Mike said, flashing a grin. “That track still smoking.”

  Celeste allowed herself a small smile. Morning settled around them, ordinary and fragile all at once, unaware of how close it stood to breaking.

  And somewhere deeper in the base, behind walls and cameras and quiet alarms, something else had already begun to move.

  Mike woke to the taste of old beer and metal.

  It lingered at the back of his throat, thick and sour, mixing with the dry ache behind his eyes. The ceiling above him blurred as he stared at it, a hairline crack running diagonally from one corner to the other. Government-issued quarters. Clean. Too clean. Sterile in a way that made sleep feel temporary, borrowed.

  For a moment—just a moment—his mind betrayed him.

  Elaine, younger. Laughing. Bare feet on cheap apartment carpet. Coffee burning in a mug she always forgot on the counter. Fingers tapping impatient rhythms against his chest when he took too long tying his boots. That version of her still lived somewhere in his head, preserved like a photograph that refused to fade.

  Then the image shifted.

  Elaine again—poised, immaculate, standing beside Thomas Caldwell. Shoulder to shoulder. Comfortable. Certain. The kind of certainty that came from choosing a direction and never looking back.

  Mike rolled onto his side with a low grunt and sat up.

  The room swayed. He waited for it to settle, breathing through his nose, jaw clenched. His hand found the cardboard box beside the bed without looking. Muscle memory. He cracked a can open and lifted it to his mouth, draining half of it in two pulls. Cold bitterness slid down his throat, dulling the edge of the headache without touching its core.

  “Morning,” he muttered to nobody.

  He let the empty can drop, the sound sharp against the floor, and reached for another. This one he carried with him as he stood, bare feet touching the cool tile. The window blinds rattled softly as he pushed them open. Early light spilled in across the room, pale gold catching dust in the air.

  Somewhere outside, the base was waking up.

  Boots on concrete. Engines turning over. Voices calling cadence. A world that moved forward whether he did or not.

  Mike leaned his forehead against the glass and took another drink. The headache pulsed, rhythmic, stubborn. He fished through his pockets with his free hand, coming up empty, then began searching the room with more intent. Jacket. Dresser. Bag by the door.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Nothing.

  His jaw tightened until it hurt.

  Finally, tucked behind the nightstand, he found the crumpled pack. One cigarette left. He stared at it for a long second before sliding it free and tucking it behind his ear like a promise deferred.

  Eric drifted into his thoughts uninvited.

  Eric showing up with a crooked grin and a pack already open. Eric always offering before being asked. Eric sitting beside him on a couch that smelled like cheap detergent and old smoke, listening without interrupting. Eric carrying weight without ever calling it that.

  Now Eric lay somewhere else on this base. Still. Silent.

  Mike exhaled slowly and straightened, catching his reflection in the mirror as he passed. Camo pants. Brown shirt stretched tight across shoulders that carried more history than muscle these days. Dog tags glinted faintly at his chest, the metal cool against his skin.

  The uniform was gone.

  The responsibility remained.

  He splashed water on his face, dragged his fingers through his hair, sprayed a little cologne out of habit more than hope. The man in the mirror looked older than he remembered feeling. Worn. Familiar.

  He grabbed the half-full beer and opened the door.

  Michelle stood in the hallway, keys dangling from one hand, hair damp and loose around her shoulders. Shadows sat under her eyes, deep enough to speak of a night spent staring at the ceiling. She stopped short when she saw him, gaze flicking from his face to the can in his hand.

  Mike gave her a crooked half-smile. “Judging by the look of you, I’d say we’re running about even.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “Sleep didn’t really… happen.”

  He stepped aside to let her pass, then followed, the hallway stretching ahead of them in long, clean lines. The smell of disinfectant mixed with coffee from somewhere down the corridor.

  They walked in silence for a few steps before Michelle spoke again, her voice quieter.

  “Mike,” she said, then stopped. Her fingers tightened around the keys. “Did I cause this?”

  He blinked and turned to her fully. “Cause what?”

  She swallowed. “This. Him. Everything.” Her words tumbled out faster now. “I keep thinking about it. About leaving. About what I didn’t see. What I didn’t ask. What I didn’t stay for.” Her voice wavered. “What if he’s like this because of me?”

  Mike stared at her for a second, then reached out and flicked her lightly on the nose.

  She froze, startled. “Hey—”

  “Girl,” he said, shaking his head, “you serious right now?”

  Her mouth opened, then closed again. “I—”

  “Eric didn’t end up in a coma because you packed a bag,” Mike said, firm but even. “He ended up there because the universe decided to drop the rulebook and light it on fire.” He gestured vaguely, beer sloshing. “Have you seen what he survives? What he does? Nothing about that man fits into normal cause and effect.”

  She looked down at the floor, shoulders drawn in. “I still left.”

  Mike stepped closer and rested a hand on her shoulder, heavy and grounding. “And you’re here now.”

  She looked up at him, eyes glassy. “That matters?”

  “It matters more than you’re giving it credit for,” he said. “Most people vanish when things get hard. You came back when they got impossible.”

  She let out a shaky breath, something in her posture easing. “You make it sound simple.”

  “It’s simple,” Mike said. “It isn’t easy.”

  They resumed walking, boots echoing softly.

  Michelle glanced at him sideways. “How are you holding up?”

  He snorted. “You want the polite answer or the honest one?”

  “Honest.”

  He lifted the beer slightly. “Working on it.”

  She hesitated, then asked, “Elaine…?”

  His expression shifted, something tightening behind his eyes. “She was a lot of things once,” he said quietly. “Some of them still live in my head.” He took a drink, then shrugged. “Life moves people. Sometimes it moves them away from you.”

  Michelle nodded slowly. “I didn’t know.”

  “You weren’t supposed to,” he said. “That one’s mine.”

  They reached the end of the corridor where sunlight spilled in from an open exit. Outside, the sounds of the base grew louder—shouts, laughter, the thud of boots on track surface.

  Mike tilted his head toward the noise. “Girls are probably training already.”

  Michelle followed his gaze. “Yeah.”

  He took one last pull from the beer and crushed the can in his hand before dropping it in a nearby bin. “Come on. Let’s get breakfast. I’ve got a feeling today’s gonna be one of those days.”

  She managed a small smile. “You always say that.”

  “And I’m usually right,” he replied, pushing the door open.

  They stepped out together into the morning.

  The training field shimmered with heat despite the early hour.

  Dust hung low over the track, disturbed by boots and movement, drifting in lazy spirals that caught the light as the sun climbed higher. A line of soldiers stood off to one side, stretching, checking watches, murmuring among themselves. Most tried not to stare. Few succeeded.

  Celeste crossed the finish line first.

  Her pace never broke. Her breathing came steady and controlled, shoulders loose, stride clean all the way through the final stretch. She slowed to a walk a few meters past the marker and turned, folding her arms across her chest as if she had simply finished a brisk stroll rather than a two-mile sprint at a speed that bent expectations.

  Moments later, Inaria thundered across the line.

  Her steps hit harder, breath sharper, chest rising and falling as she staggered forward two more strides before stopping. Dust clung to her boots and calves. Sweat darkened her collar. She bent at the waist, hands on her knees, horns dipping as she dragged air back into her lungs.

  Staff Sergeant Hargraves stared at his stopwatch.

  Then he stared at it again.

  Then he looked up.

  “Three minutes, forty-five seconds,” he said slowly, eyes flicking to Celeste. “And four minutes, twenty-six.”

  He exhaled through his teeth, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t even know what to do with that information.”

  Inaria straightened, wincing faintly as the lingering soreness in her sternum reminded her of yesterday. She shot Celeste a sharp look, irritation already building. “You slowed down at the end.”

  Celeste raised an eyebrow. “Warm-ups serve a purpose.”

  “I was still catching up,” Inaria snapped.

  Hargraves let out a short laugh, the sound halfway between disbelief and surrender. “At this exact moment,” he said, shaking his head, “I am extremely grateful neither of you belong to the United States Army.”

  Inaria’s head snapped toward him. “Why?”

  She tilted her horns slightly, eyes narrowing. “It is my horns, yes?”

  Celeste glanced at her, then back to Hargraves. “Or perhaps my ears.”

  Hargraves held up both hands. “Neither. You set impossible standards. If I report this, someone’s going to ask why the rest of the unit isn’t doing the same, and I do not feel like explaining physics today.”

  A few nearby soldiers chuckled. The tension loosened, just a touch.

  Celeste inclined her head. “A reasonable concern.”

  Inaria snorted, wiping sweat from her brow. “Your people have strange priorities.”

  “That,” Hargraves said dryly, “is the most accurate assessment I’ve heard all morning.”

  Footsteps approached from the edge of the field.

  Mike and Michelle came into view near the fence line, Mike squinting against the light, hands shoved into his pockets, posture loose in a way that suggested effort rather than comfort. Michelle walked beside him, arms folded, gaze fixed on the two figures at the center of the field.

  Inaria spotted them first.

  She straightened immediately, irritation melting into something closer to enthusiasm. “Mike,” she called, waving with more force than necessary. “We ran very fast today.”

  Mike let out a low whistle. “I can see that.”

  Celeste turned toward them, nodding once in greeting. “Good morning.”

  Michelle returned the nod, eyes still on Inaria. “How are you holding up?”

  Inaria puffed out her chest slightly. “Better than yesterday. Worse than her.” She jerked her chin at Celeste. “But improving.”

  Mike grinned. “That’s all any of us can do.”

  Celeste glanced toward the nearby building, already shifting gears. “We have classes shortly. Today’s focus is mathematics and literature.”

  Inaria’s expression brightened. “Yes. I am going to learn more words.” She frowned briefly, searching for the term. “At the… M-W-R.”

  “MWR,” Celeste corrected calmly.

  “I was getting to it,” Inaria snapped, then turned back to Mike and Michelle, excitement bubbling through her annoyance. “We are reading about a cat.”

  Michelle blinked. “A cat?”

  “A very important one,” Inaria said solemnly. “The doctor person told me so.”

  Mike laughed despite himself. “Dr. Seuss?”

  “Yes,” Inaria said proudly. “Dr. Seuss. There is a cat with a hat. I do not know what a hat is yet.”

  Michelle smiled, something soft and wistful passing through her expression. “You’ll like it.”

  Celeste added, “I am reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

  The smile faded.

  Mike and Michelle exchanged a look—brief, weighted, shared.

  “That one,” Mike said carefully, “comes with some… context.”

  Celeste inclined her head. “So I have been told.”

  Before either of them could elaborate, voices rose at the far end of the field. A small cluster of civilians had gathered along the perimeter fence—Elena and her team among them. Raj lifted a device slightly, angling it for a better view.

  A guard immediately pointed. “We’re going to have to confiscate that when you’re done.”

  Raj winced. “Can we talk about this? Just hypothetically?”

  The guard’s expression remained flat. “No.”

  Mike shook his head, amused. “World’s changing fast.”

  Inaria watched the exchange with interest. “Your people watch everything.”

  “They try,” Michelle said.

  Celeste glanced toward the sky, thoughtful. “Observation shapes understanding.”

  A distant hum rolled across the base, subtle but wrong. The ground seemed to hold its breath.

  Mike frowned. “You feel that?”

  Before anyone could answer, a sharp crack of static burst from nearby speakers.

  Then another.

  Hargraves straightened, hand moving toward his radio.

  Far across the installation, a warning tone began to rise.

  And somewhere else entirely, something important had gone missing.

  The sirens cut through the base like a blade.

  Not loud at first—almost hesitant—then rising fast, sharp enough to rattle windows and set every spine on edge. The tone carried authority and urgency in equal measure, the kind drilled into muscle memory rather than thought.

  Hargraves was already moving.

  “Clear the field,” he barked, voice snapping soldiers into motion. Boots hit dirt. Conversations died mid-word. Civilians along the fence stiffened, confusion rippling through them as personnel began ushering people back with firm hands and clipped instructions.

  Mike’s head lifted, the haze in his eyes burning away in an instant.

  “That’s not a drill,” he said.

  Celeste felt it then—the pressure shift, subtle but unmistakable. A distortion in the air, like a held breath stretched too long. Her attention snapped inward, senses reaching, searching.

  Inaria noticed her stillness. “What is it?”

  Celeste’s jaw tightened. “Something has changed.”

  Rachel appeared at a jog, tablet clutched tight, hair pulled back and face pale with controlled urgency. Caldwell followed half a step behind, expression set, eyes already scanning the crowd.

  “You have five seconds,” Caldwell said, voice cutting through the noise, “to tell me where he is.”

  The group stared at him.

  Mike blinked. “Where who is?”

  Rachel answered, words tumbling faster than she liked. “Eric. The cameras in the storage shed went dark. Power fluctuation first, then signal loss. We arrived less than a minute later.”

  Caldwell exhaled through his nose. “And the shed?”

  Rachel swallowed. “Large sections of the structure are gone.”

  The word landed heavy.

  “Gone how?” Michelle asked, already knowing she wouldn’t like the answer.

  Rachel hesitated, then forced it out. “Consumed.”

  Celeste’s head snapped up. “Where is he now?”

  Rachel shook her head. “We don’t know.”

  The sirens shifted pitch.

  A new voice cut in over the speakers—clear, practiced, unmistakably military.

  “Anomaly detected. Dining facility. All personnel to stations. Weapons condition one.”

  Every head turned.

  Mike’s stomach dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Caldwell was already moving. “Everyone with me.”

  They broke into a run.

  The base transformed around them as they moved—soldiers flooding corridors, rifles raised, commands echoing off concrete. Civilians were pushed aside into secured areas, confusion mounting into fear as armed personnel streamed past.

  Elena grabbed Raj’s arm as they were herded back. “What’s happening?”

  A soldier shook his head. “Stay here.”

  The dining facility loomed ahead, doors sealed.

  Then they burst open.

  Caldwell led the entry, weapons raised behind him in a practiced fan. The room froze.

  Trays clattered. Chairs scraped. Conversations died mid-sentence.

  At the center of it all sat Eric.

  He occupied a chair far too casually for the moment, elbows on the table, shoulders hunched forward. His hair stood in wild directions, eyes slightly unfocused in a way that suggested hunger had won several arguments already. A plate of spaghetti sat before him, half demolished.

  A noodle dangled from his mouth.

  He looked up slowly.

  Took in the ring of rifles.

  The stunned civilians.

  The familiar faces clustered near the entrance.

  His eyes widened a fraction.

  He chewed once.

  Swallowed.

  Then, through a mouth still far too full, he said—

  “What’s up, guys?”