“You shouldn’t be doing this alone,” I say.
“I shouldn’t be doing any of this.”
Before I can answer, he steps outside into the chilly morning mist. The door shuts behind him, and the cabin feels colder and emptier than I want.
An hour later,the fog still hasn’t lifted. Neither has the pressure sitting inside my chest.
I sit at the small kitchen table, surrounded by notebooks, printed reports, interview transcripts, and my laptop. The official narrative sits neatly organized in front of me. Too neatly.
I hit play on an audio file. Static crackles.
Then Sergeant Miller’s exhausted voice fills the cabin. “Phoenix was intel-adjacent. Quiet guy. Smart. Didn’t really fit with recon…after.”
Click.
I find another recording. This time, Corporal Diaz. “He kept getting calls outside normal channels.”
Click.
Then another… Lieutenant Brooks. “We were told not to ask questions. Just cooperate.”
My pulse slows. Everything narrows and focuses. I’ve felt this before… the moment when a story breaks wide open.
I spread photographs across the table. Mission briefings. After-action reports. Medical timelines.
Coordinates.The tattoo on Rhys’s chest flashes in my mind, more a memorial than a wound.
I replay Rhys’s words from last night.He wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
I grab the official report again and scan it. There’s no mention of a broken formation or deviation. No mention of Phoenix moving.
My breath fails. Because if Rhys is telling the truth… that omission isn’t accidental.
The cabin door squeaks open suddenly, and I jerk upright.
Rhys steps inside, carrying wet rope over one shoulder, boots smeared in mud. Cold air rushes in with him. “You’re pale,” he says immediately.
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous hobby.” His tone is dry, but exhaustion lingers beneath it.
My gaze drops to his bandaged arm. The gauze is spotted faintly pink again. “You reopened it.”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
I almost laugh. Instead, I hold up the reports. “You lied.”
Rhys freezes. “I omitted.”
“That’s called lying in journalism.”
“That’s called survival in the military.”
The answer irritates me because part of me understands it. I hate that part. I stand slowly. “Yesterday, you told me Phoenix left position.”
