Amy straightens, wiping dust from her lip. “Then maybe you should act like it.”
Dead. Godsdamn. Silence.
The entire squad goes rigid. Kanapa’s nostrils flare. I take a step forward without realizing it. Not to protect her. Just… to stop the explosion I can feel building.
But he just sneers. “Try not to die before I get my next medal,” he says, and stalks off.
Amy sags, just a fraction, and I see her wipe her eyes with her shoulder. Not crying. Sweat. Sand. Something in between.
She catches me watching. “What?”
“Nothing,” I grunt.
She doesn’t press. Just lifts her recorder. “You want to say something for the piece?”
I snort and turn away. “I’ve already said too much.”
But her eyes follow me.
Like she wants to understand.
I hate that.
Because a part of mewantsher to.
CHAPTER 3
AMY
The sun hits hard out here—like a fist with something to prove. My skin’s already screaming beneath my collar, and I’ve been in this godsdamned base less than twenty-four hours. The air tastes like old blood and carbon smoke, and every breeze kicks up sand that grinds between my teeth like ground glass.
I should be used to this by now. I’ve filed from frontlines before, from dustbowls, dead towns, plague wards. But there’s something different about this place. Something colder than the heat.
These soldiers wear their pride like armor, but it’s not just standard-issue. It’s something deeper, more… brittle. I see it in the way they walk past the burn pit without looking. The way they laugh too loudly at nothing at all.
They’re not fine.
And I’m going to prove it.
The first interview is with Sergeant Varr—built like a brick shithouse, with a scar like lightning across his scalp and teeth filed just a little too sharp. The camera catches him perfectly, his armor glinting, jaw set, voice clipped and measured. He sounds like a recruitment ad.
“We’re proud to serve under Captain Kanapa,” he says, staring past the lens like he’s talking to God. “He leads from the front. Never asks us to do anything he wouldn’t do himself.”
But when I ask about what happened in Niveen—the ambush, the burned-out settlement—he hesitates. Just for a second. A flicker. Like someone threw a rock in his calm, still water.
“No civilians left there,” he says. Too fast and neat.
I don’t press. Not yet. I thank him, save the file, and move on.
Private Telya next. Barely out of cadet school, freckles still fighting for space on her nose. She’s twitchy, fingers never still, keeps glancing over her shoulder like someone might yank her off camera mid-sentence.
“What’s it like being stationed under Kanapa’s command?” I ask.
She swallows. “Intense. He’s… he’s a legend.”
“Is that a good thing?”
She laughs. But her laugh doesn’t reach her eyes. “Depends who you ask.”
