07:55
Weapons Testing Hangar-2, Watson Industries – USA
The muffled thump of distant artillery echoed through the reinforced walls, a low heartbeat for the sprawling compound. The air smelt faintly of oil, hot wiring, and the ozone tang left behind by high-powered weapon discharges.
Sam's boots scraped lightly over the polished concrete as he entered the cavernous hangar. His expression was unreadable, but the set of his shoulders carried a weight that hadn't been there moments earlier.
Behind him, the measured click of Annabelle's heels and the sharper cadence of Kate's boots followed in sync. The sound carried easily in the open space, each step a reminder that they were not alone.
"You didn't have to throw her out like that," Annabelle said. Her voice was level, almost casual — but there was a steel thread running through it that made the words heavier.
Sam didn't slow. "She came to drag me into politics," he said, eyes forward. "I'm not interested in politics."
Annabelle stepped ahead, forcing him to stop. She tilted her chin just enough to meet his gaze. "This isn't about politics, Sam. Jacob's gone."
The words landed like a suppressed detonation — quiet, but with force. Sam's jaw tightened, the faintest shift in his stance betraying the impact.
"I know," he said simply.
Her eyes searched his, looking for some crack in the wall. "Five years ago, I wasn't in that room — I was in the cockpit, waiting for you to haul his stubborn ass out. I remember seeing him on the stretcher… unconscious, but with that stupid faint smile, like he'd won some private bet with himself."
Sam's gaze flickered for a fraction of a second.
Annabelle's own drifted away, her voice softening but losing none of its edge. "We bickered all the damn time… But I figured there'd always be another round. Guess I was wrong."
Sam looked between Annabelle and Kate, his voice steady. "I stayed out of this because I thought it wasn't my fight anymore. But now… I'm going back. Not because you asked. Not for the SNA. Not for the UN. I'm going because this war ends — one way or another — and I'm going to be there to end it."
The hangar settled into silence, the only sound the constant low hum of overhead lights.
Annabelle gave a single, deliberate nod. A faint smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth. "That's the captain I remember."
Kate glanced toward the transport jet visible through the hangar doors. "Then we should leave before your new friends outside decide to change their minds."
Sam turned for the boarding stairs without another word. "Then let's move."
08:05
Runway, Watson Industries – USA
The transport jet's twin engines purred at idle, the deep vibration thrumming through the wet tarmac. The metallic tang of jet fuel mingled with the heat-baked scent of steel and asphalt, a reminder that the Texas morning was already pushing toward summer.
Sam walked between Annabelle and Kate as they crossed the hangar apron toward the waiting aircraft. Ahead, near the edge of the tarmac, Lieutenant Nathan stood with two of his men. Faint coffee stains still ghosted the edges of his uniform blouse, stubborn reminders of Aura's earlier "accident".
Nathan's eyes tracked their approach, his expression unreadable. "Didn't think I'd see you leaving so soon, Your Highness," he said, gaze flicking from Annabelle to Kate… and finally landing on Sam. "And this is?"
"Company business," Annabelle replied smoothly, not breaking stride. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with."
Nathan's mouth curved into the faintest smirk. "Company business in a military-grade transport jet?"
Annabelle didn't blink. "The same jet I landed in. You're welcome to file a report about it — I'm sure the paperwork will keep you warm at night."
Kate fought the upward pull of a smile.
Sam didn't say a word and didn't so much as glance at Nathan as he mounted the boarding stairs. Nathan's eyes followed him anyway, narrowing slightly — not in recognition, but with the itch of a face you've seen in a file, a briefing, or a grainy photograph.
The engines surged, the rising roar smothering the rest of the conversation. By the time Nathan turned to his men, the jet had begun its slow roll toward the runway.
He adjusted the strap of his rifle, still watching the shrinking silhouette of the aircraft.
"Keep tabs on them," he muttered.
19:30 (Local Time)
SNA Parade Ground – New Eden
The storm had left its fingerprints on everything. A typhoon had torn past the island the day before, and though the winds had gone, the sky still hung low and bruised, spitting a cold, relentless rain. The parade ground was slick, water pooling in shallow depressions, each drop sending concentric ripples across its surface.
The sea beyond the cliffs churned under the fading light, its roar muted by the curtain of rain. The air smelt of salt, wet stone, and the faint, sharp tang of gun oil from weapons held in ceremonial stillness.
Twenty-eight coffins rested in a perfect line, each draped in the blue-and-white of the SNA. Jacob's coffin stood in the centre, the flag darkened by rain, a weathered squad insignia pinned just below the fold — the same patch he'd worn into more firefights than anyone could count.
Mitali stood near the front, the medic's red cross on her soaked sleeve vivid against the black of her dress uniform. Rain streamed down her face, indistinguishable from tears. Beside her, Arina's posture was a study in defiance, every line of her body resisting the pull of grief.
Elina held herself in perfect regulation stance, but her jaw trembled as she stared straight ahead. Sifat and De Luca, both once raw recruits under Jacob's strict but steady training, stood in the same row, their salutes unwavering despite the water dripping steadily from their berets.
The chaplain's voice rose and fell against the rain, low words about service, sacrifice, and the unbreakable bond of those who stand together in battle. Now and then the wind stole fragments of the speech, replacing them with the steady hiss of falling water.
When the rifle squad fired their three-volley salute, the sharp cracks seemed amplified by the damp air, echoing off the cliff faces like rolling thunder. Mitali flinched, Arina's shoulders stiffened, and Elina's eyes closed briefly. Sifat and De Luca didn't move except to bring their salutes down in unison.
Beyond the military cordon, on a muddy access road, a black sedan idled. From the passenger seat, Sohel watched the ceremony in silence, the rain tracing slow, distorted rivers down the glass.
Annabelle sat beside him, her gaze fixed on Jacob's coffin. Rain hammered softly on the roof, a rhythm as steady as a heartbeat.
"They deserve better than this," she said quietly, almost lost beneath the sound of the storm.
Sohel turned his head toward her but didn't speak. His eyes returned to the rows of coffins, the flags glistening under the storm-muted evening.
The procession began — twenty-eight flag-covered coffins carried slowly toward the ridge, where the cemetery waited. Boots splashed in unison through shallow water, the motion as precise as any drill but heavy with the finality of the moment.
Annabelle's gaze lingered until Jacob's coffin disappeared from view beyond the rise. She didn't look at Sohel when she spoke again.
"Let's go."
The sedan's tyres hissed through the rain as it pulled away, leaving the parade ground to the sound of the storm and the quiet mourning of soldiers.