The golden light of dawn crept over the earth as the sun rose.
The convoy had come to a halt—an unscheduled stop, called by Pierce himself.
Everyone gathered outside the armored truck he stepped down from.
Soldiers. Medics. Researchers. Civilians.
Every person who had fought beside, trained, or even briefly known Angelo Walker and his team.
No one spoke.
Not until Pierce did.
His boots hit the ground. His posture was straight as a blade.
His face unreadable, but his voice carried the weight of a man who had not slept.
"Last night," he began, rough and steady, "two of our soldiers fell."
A ripple moved through the civilians—gasps, whispers, stillness.
"Private Ryan Maddox is dead," Pierce continued.
"So is Lieutenant Marcelle Hale."
The shock ran through the crowd like a cold wind.
Some bowed their heads.
Some froze.
Dr. Elias Grant nearly collapsed, knees buckling, but he locked himself upright, jaw clenched hard enough to tremble.
Pierce pressed on.
"Angelo Walker has been captured. We believe he is alive. And we are going to get him back."
Sophia and the Walker family stood together, grief tearing them apart.
Olivia broke into tears in James's arms; Emma clutched Sophia's hand, fear clouding her eyes.
Sophia hugged her close, voice shaking.
"It's going to be okay. Your brother's strong. He'll beat those monsters and come back to us."
James blinked away tears, burying his face against Olivia's hair.
Alex's legs gave out entirely—he dropped to his knees, vision blurring, chest tightening until he could hardly breathe.
Pierce's gaze swept over them all.
"Lieutenant Hale died in the field doing what she always did—protecting her people. Many of you fought beside her. Some of you owed her your lives."
Then, quieter, almost pained:
"Private Maddox… maybe not all of you knew him. He was quiet. Kept to himself. But last night, that kid dragged his broken body across the ground just to send one final report."
He swallowed hard.
"He gave us the tracker ID that may be the only way we find Angelo."
His voice cracked—barely—but enough for everyone to hear.
"He died scared. He died alone. But he did not die for nothing."
Silence fell like a blanket.
And when Pierce stepped back, there was no doubt left in his voice.
"We mourn today. Tomorrow—we move.
For Lieutenant Hale.
For Private Maddox.
For Angelo Walker."
Only then did the wildfire begin—shock, grief, whispers—but now the flame had purpose.
Two names.
Two losses.
And for some… that was enough to break them.
Dr. Elias Grant sat alone in the back of a supply truck, folded into himself.
He didn't cry.
He didn't pace.
He didn't speak.
He just sat there, staring at nothing, hands clenched into fists on his knees.
The man who once filled whiteboards with theories, who fired off questions faster than most could answer… now looked hollowed out.
Silent, as if the world had gone quiet inside his head.
That was how Olivia Walker found him.
Her eyes were still red from crying, her hands shaking slightly.
But she approached him gently.
"Dr. Grant… I heard about what happened. I wanted to check on you."
He blinked, as if pulled from very far away.
"Oh… Mrs. Walker." His voice was thin, fragile. "Thank you. I'm… holding together, I guess."
He looked down, shame creeping into his expression.
"We're sorry we couldn't protect Angelo. For the mistakes of my colleagues… please forgive them."
"No," Olivia said immediately, voice trembling. "They did their best. This isn't their fault."
"Thank you," Grant whispered.
"We'll get him back."
There was a pause.
Olivia sat on a crate beside him, hands folded in her lap.
"I heard Lieutenant Marcelle Hale was your friend," she said softly.
"A good one."
Grant exhaled through his nose, eyes glassy but dry.
"She was my only friend… before your son."
Olivia looked at him with quiet sympathy.
"Can you tell me more about her?" she asked gently.
"I heard the three of you were always together.
You and Lieutenant Hale… you helped Angelo so much, when we—his family—looked away."
Grant was silent for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"Yeah… sure," he murmured.
"It's a long one."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and began quietly.
"I met Marcelle during one of my first deployments. Nothing dramatic. I was eating alone—like always—poking at cold rations in the corner of the mess tent."
A faint, bitter laugh.
"I'd made a habit of avoiding people. Back then, I didn't talk if I could help it. Just worked, studied… buried myself in the clean logic of data and silence."
He inhaled slowly.
"She walked right up and sat across from me. Told me I looked like I was trying to decode my food."
A small, ghostlike smile crossed his face.
"That was the first thing she ever said to me."
He rubbed his thumb against his palm.
"I didn't know what to say. Mumbled something about protein ratios. Figured that'd scare her off."
A soft exhale.
"It didn't. She just nodded and kept talking. Asked what I did, why I looked like I hadn't slept in a week… which was fair."
He paused—eyes dim, remembering.
"She didn't push too hard. Didn't overshare. But you could see it. The quiet strength. The pain. She was guarded, but never cruel."
He looked down at the dusty floor of the truck.
"Turns out, she was an orphan. Grew up bouncing between systems. Joined the military because she wanted to help people—because no one helped her."
Another pause, deeper this time.
"We didn't become friends right away. We just kept showing up. Missions, patrols, post-briefing coffee. Those little moments added up."
His voice softened.
"She made me feel seen. And I think—somehow—I made her feel understood."
He lifted his gaze to Olivia, eyes far away.
"I didn't call her Marcelle until much later. But once I did… I never stopped."
A breath. Then another.
"When the military brought Angelo to the base, Marcelle and I were there."
He shook his head slowly.
"I remember when they tried to insert an IV. The needle snapped. We had no idea what to make of it."
Grant's brow furrowed.
"Later we heard the rumors—about the ice incident, how his body had changed, how he created frost from nothing."
He let out a short, disbelieving breath.
"I didn't buy it at first. Thought it was exaggerated."
His expression darkened at the memory.
"Then Marcelle went on that mission—the one with the Watcher. She came back alone. Changed."
He swallowed.
"I think that was when she knew Angelo wasn't just a subject. He was something else."
He leaned back slightly.
"When the General put her in charge of his training, she pulled me in, too. Said the kid needed more than a drill sergeant. He needed knowledge."
A faint, warm smile returned.
"The first time I walked into his room, I saw him materialize a knife out of thin air. Just—bam. There it was. I asked him how he did it. You know what he said?"
Grant's voice softened with something like fondness.
"He said he'd just finished reading five thick books in under an hour and wanted to try recreating a knife he'd seen earlier—just lying on a desk."
He chuckled—quiet, genuine, almost painful.
"That was the moment I knew. We'd get along just fine."
Then, dryly:
"Though, I guess you could say I was the teacher… and he was the student."
His eyes dimmed as he looked past Olivia, into memories only he could see.
"Every day with those two was something new. Marcelle pushing him past his limits. Me throwing impossible theories at him, watching him tear through them."
He exhaled, long and slow.
"It wasn't easy. But… those days? They mattered."
A breeze swept dust past the convoy as Olivia reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm.
"It's going to be alright," she whispered. "I know the military will bring him back."
Grant didn't answer at first.
But after a moment, he nodded—just barely.
The ghosts of the past lingered around him.
But the fire behind his eyes… it hadn't died.
Not yet.