The night at camp had a bite to it, sharper than usual, as if the cold itself carried warnings no one could read. The air smelled of metal and burnt fuel, the usual perfume of soldiers who had been running missions far too long.
Generators hummed in the distance, a low mechanical heartbeat that never stopped. Inside the command tent, Richard hunched over after-action reports, the blue glow of the tablet washing his face in tired light. His shoulders were stiff, his eyes dragging from line to line.
He didn't hear footsteps. He only heard the door snap open.
Lance stood framed in the doorway, breath uneven, sweat trickling down his temple. His expression was enough to silence the camp. Fear lived in his eyes, the kind a trained soldier didn't wear unless something had gone terribly, irreversibly wrong.
"Captain, we have a problem!"
Richard straightened immediately, placing the reports aside. "What is it?"
