Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut, and the TOC felt like itself again. Maps. Equipment hum. Dust and electronics.
For a moment neither Mac nor Melvin spoke.
Mac’s hand brushed Melvin’s elbow as they turned toward the door. Not a declaration. Not defiance.
Just confirmation.
They were still steady.
The email from Germany came through just before evening brief.
Melvin almost missed it. Connection lag. Attachments slow to load. But the sender line was unmistakable.
Lucero.
He didn’t open it right away. He waited until later, when the TOC thinned and the generators outside settled into their steady hum.
Mac was leaning over the map table when Melvin finally read it aloud.
“Physical therapy’s hell,” Lucero had written. “They’re talking about sending me stateside for the rest. Tell LT Crawford he still owes me twenty bucks. And tell Specialist Reynolds to stop trying to die before I get back.”
Mac huffed softly.
There was more. Small details about Landstuhl. The strange quiet of Germany compared to Iraq. The way healing felt slower than fighting.
At the end, Lucero had added:
Save me a seat when you all get home.
Melvin closed the laptop gently.
“He’ll make it,” Mac said.
“Yeah,” Melvin agreed. “He will.”
Reynolds appeared a few minutes later, knocking once on the TOC frame before stepping in.
“You got a minute?”
Mac glanced at Melvin, then nodded. “Always.”
Reynolds shifted his weight. He looked older than when they first pulled him into this mess.
“I’ve been working on the partial shifts,” he said. “Like you showed me.”
Mac leaned back against the table. “Yeah?”
Reynolds flexed his hand slightly. Subtle, but Melvin saw it. The tension under the skin, the discipline holding it in place.
“Claws are solid now,” Reynolds continued. “Not ripping through gloves anymore. Fangs come easier too. I can hold it without losing my head. Even under stress.”
“That’s control,” Melvin said quietly.
Reynolds nodded. “Feels like it’s mine.”
He drew in a breath.
