I shouldn't be alive.
That sentence was like a nail, hammering him back into reality every time he drifted. The sea slapped against his face, the salt cracked his lips, his stomach ached with emptiness—and yet his mind was painfully clear. Clear enough to recall every face: the expressions during the final assembly in the hangar, the stuttering radio calls, the rain-like trails of fire, and that final "Don't look back."
He had folded his uniform neatly, buttoned every button, as if awaiting judgment. Just a little longer adrift and the sea would decide for him. But someone hauled him out.
He wasn't sure if that counted as a blessing.
"He's awake?" Giovanni asked.
The Tin Man stood by the control panel. His voice was short and measured, as if each word had been weighed.
"Awake. Body temperature rising. Conscious, but mentally unstable."
Giovanni nodded without his usual dramatic tone. He planted both hands on the edge of the console, staring down at a hastily unfolded sea chart like he was pressing his thoughts into the paper.
"We didn't fish him out just to let him rot in a cabin," he said. "Where's Renass?"
The door opened. Boatswain Renass strode in, gave a half-formal salute, and reported:
"Settled in, Captain. He's in the aft cabin. Dry clothes, hot water, painkillers all provided. He's an air force pilot."
"Air force pilot?" Giovanni's eyes lit up briefly before he reined it in. "You all know what that could mean."
Renass didn't share his optimism. "Means he can fly. Also means he's nearly lost all will to fight. Not to mention—his plane's wings are completely wrecked."
Giovanni turned to the Tin Man. "XO?"
The Tin Man answered without pause. "There's a deflection layer above the wall. Likely magnetic in nature. It distorts flight paths. Approaching it would result in being bounced off or forced into a stall—straight down."
Giovanni was silent for a moment, swallowing a plan that had almost made him hopeful.
"So, flying over isn't realistic," he murmured.
Renass added coldly, "Even if he had a functioning plane. Even if he were willing to try."
Giovanni rubbed his temples, then looked up. "But this man is still an opportunity. We need more eyes. More hands. Which of you will try to convince him to join us?"
Renass shook her head. "Not me. That kind won't hear anything about 'joining' right now. I've saved and settled him. Any more and it's coercion."
Giovanni looked at the Tin Man.
"I'm not good at persuasion," the XO said.
"Not good, or just unwilling?" Giovanni asked half-seriously.
The Tin Man didn't answer, which meant agreement.
Giovanni sighed, about to say something, when footsteps echoed at the command room's entrance. Miguel leaned on the doorframe like seriousness was something that needed shouldering.
"I'll go," Miguel said.
Renass frowned. "You?"
"Why not?" Miguel raised an eyebrow. "You're all saying no. Someone has to try. Besides, I talk a lot."
The Tin Man gave him a glance but no comment.
Giovanni, however, smiled faintly—genuinely. "Alright. Give it a shot. But don't push too hard."
Miguel nodded, turned to go, then glanced back at Renass.
"Boatswain, do me a favor."
"Say it."
"Make something mouthwatering. As far from survival rations as possible."
Renass stared at him for two seconds, gauging if he was messing around. In the end, she nodded. "You're in luck. We've got 'whale meat' today."
Miguel grinned. "Then it's whale steak."
The aft cabin was dimmer than the front, thick with the smell of medicine and damp cloth. The pilot sat on the edge of the bed, back ramrod straight like he was still in the cockpit.
He was fully dressed: clean uniform, collar buttoned to the top, gloves laid on his lap, boots polished to a shine. His rescue clothes were folded neatly on a crate beside the bed—precision that spoke of a noble self-discipline, even in disgrace.
Miguel entered with a tray: thick-cut steak with crispy edges, glistening fat, a small bowl of hot soup, and slices of toasted bread. The aroma smothered the word "adrift" before it could even rise.
The pilot looked up at him, gaze unfocused.
Miguel set the tray down gently. "Here. Whale steak. Don't ask me what kind of whale. Tastes great though."
The pilot didn't move.
Miguel added, "It won't taste good cold."
Silence stretched.
Finally, the pilot spoke—hoarse, flat: "I… don't have an appetite."
Miguel blinked. Truly surprised.
"What? You were drifting at sea for three days—alright, Renass said several days—surviving on shrimp and scraps, and now you have no appetite?"
The pilot's lips twitched. Something cracked. His expression finally broke, like a mask torn at the corner.
"You're just a kid. What do you know." He stared at the steak like it was evidence of a crime. "For the past month, my squad and I—didn't eat a single proper meal. We lived on rations. Water. Grit. And now—I'm the only one rescued."
His fingers trembled on the gloves in his lap. Knuckles white.
"I can't," he said. "I can't eat. I—"
"Stop," Miguel cut in.
The pilot looked up, startled and angry: Who was this stranger to stop him?
Miguel didn't flinch. He pushed the tray forward a little, his voice steady, each word heavy.
"You think if you don't eat, they'll come back?"
The pilot froze.
Miguel pressed on. "You think starving to death here is some tribute to them?"
The pilot's throat moved, struggling for words.
Miguel's voice softened. "Let me tell you a story. Then decide."
He sat down, not like a preacher, just someone laying a heavy truth on the table.
"I used to be in a squad. An elite one. Sounds cool, right? They trained me to kill, to win medals, to be someone useful in reports."
The pilot's gaze shifted—a flicker of recognition.
"Then they pinned the blame on me. Because I was the best tool and the easiest target. When things went wrong, the reports were rewritten. I became the scapegoat."
Miguel laughed, bitter and sharp.
"I thought I deserved to die. Thought my survival proved I wasn't good enough. Not smart enough. Not valuable. I threw myself into missions, just trying to make people believe I wasn't worthless."
He paused, choosing his next words like picking up broken glass.
"Then I joined a weak squad. Everyone laughed at them—called them 'Parentheses Squad.' But their captain told me: there are two kinds of weak. One that's given up, and one that's still learning."
The pilot didn't reply, but his breathing eased.
"Then we faced something terrifying. Everyone in my squad fell, one by one. The captain shoved me away at the end, told me to live and kill it."
Miguel's hands clenched. His nails bit into his palms.
"I survived. Just me. That feeling you're talking about—that you don't deserve to eat or live—I know it."
The pilot's eyes reddened, but he kept himself from falling apart.
Miguel met his gaze and said clearly:
"But I realized something. You didn't survive because you betrayed them. You survived because you still have something to do—things they couldn't."
The pilot's lips trembled. "What can I even do? I—"
"A lot," Miguel said immediately. "You can tell people what happened. You can say their names. You can turn their deaths into something others survive through."
He pointed at the whale steak.
"If you don't eat, if you die here, you're just another body. Nothing changes. But if you live, you have a chance to make their deaths mean something."
The pilot stared at the steak for a long moment.
"They'll think I'm enjoying it," he said at last, like it hurt to admit.
Miguel shook his head. "They'll think you finally have strength to keep running."
He stood, handed over the utensils, simple and unceremonious.
"Take one bite," Miguel said. "Just one. If you really can't, we'll talk again. But don't turn your death into a monument."
The pilot reached out, took the knife and fork. His hand still trembled, but less.
He cut a small piece, paused mid-air like crossing the last psychological hurdle.
Miguel didn't rush him. Just added softly:
"I'm Miguel, by the way."
The pilot said hoarsely, "...Adrian."
The utensils finally dropped. Adrian brought the small bite to his mouth, chewing slowly, like he was testing if he was still human.
A few seconds later, he swallowed.
Miguel stood and quietly left, gently closing the door.
In the hallway, Giovanni was already waiting—leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed, wearing a smile that said: "Yes, I was eavesdropping, no, I won't admit it."
"What did you say to him?" Giovanni asked.
Miguel thought for a second. "Everything that needed saying."
Giovanni blinked, as if suddenly understanding.
"Ohhh—"
He drew out the sound lightly, but with certainty.
"That's a man-to-man conversation."