The dim overhead lights of the makeshift medical room buzzed faintly as Emmett sat slouched in a worn chair, his coat draped over the back and his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. A medic worked diligently behind him, carefully picking shards of glass from his scalp with a pair of tweezers. Each pull brought a wince from Emmett, though he tried to mask it behind a nonchalant expression.

  “Rough night, eh, Granger?” the medic muttered, not looking up from his task.

  Emmett grunted, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smirk. “Yeah, you could say that.” He winced again as the medic dabbed the tender area with an alcohol-soaked rag.

  The staging base they were in wasn’t much to look at, but it was functional. An old, converted hospital in the heart of London, now bustling with soldiers and intelligence officers. The building, with its scuffed floors and peeling paint, had become a hub for the wounded and the weary, men shuffling in and out as the war demanded. It wasn’t a place for comfort or luxury, but it served its purpose, patching up men like him and preparing them for whatever hell awaited next.

  The medic huffed, shaking his head as he plucked another fragment of glass from Emmett’s scalp. "You were told to rest and recover, Lieutenant. What part of that didn’t you understand? If those stitches come loose again, I swear to God…"

  "Easy there, Doc," Emmett interrupted, his one good eye narrowing. "I’m minding my injuries just fine. You just worry about my noggin, all right?" His tone made it clear he wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.

  The medic sighed, muttering under his breath as he cleaned the wound. "Well, you’re lucky, I suppose. Doesn’t look like you’ll need new stitches… though maybe avoid getting a bottle smashed over your head next time."

  “I’ll try my best,” Emmett replied flatly. The words were dripping with sarcasm, and the medic chose not to press further.

  "You lot are going to drive me to an early grave," he muttered, shaking his head as he moved to a table where he had staged his supplies.

  As the medic cleaned up, Emmett leaned forward to stand, his body aching from the night’s events. Just as he was about to retreat to his bunk for some much-needed rest, the door creaked open, and in stepped Major Lewis, looking as prim and irritated as ever, flanked by a stern-faced US Army Colonel.

  Emmett leaned back in his chair, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well, look who it is,” he drawled, his voice laced with mockery. “Just when I thought you didn’t care about me, Major.”

  “Shut it, Granger,” Lewis snapped, his tone tight with exasperation.

  The Colonel stepped forward, his boots clicking against the tiled floor. He had a quiet authority about him, his steely gaze taking in Emmett’s bruised and battered form. “Heard you had a... busy night,” the Colonel said, his voice calm but pointed.

  Emmett took his time lighting a cigarette, the flare of the match casting shadows across his face. He took a long drag before exhaling lazily. "Yessir. Compliments of Major Lewis and his fine group of gentlemen." He took a drag, exhaling the smoke lazily.

  Lewis cleared his throat, his expression turning smug. "Maybe don’t cheat like a fool, and we wouldn’t have had to ship you off to Southern London."

  “Thanks for that, by the way,” Emmett said, his grin fading into a glare. “Real charming neighborhood you sent me to. I’d like my money back, by the way.”

  Lewis smirked, his smugness returning. “Yes, about that,” he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “We might’ve paid the cabbie with ‘your money.’”

  Emmett’s glare deepened, his jaw tightening as he opened his mouth to retort, but the Colonel held up a hand, silencing both men. “Enough,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. His gaze flicked to Lewis, who shifted uncomfortably. “Normally, I’d approve of some... creative discipline,” the Colonel continued, turning back to Emmett. “But I needed to speak to you, Lieutenant, and imagine my surprise when you were nowhere to be found.”

  Emmett raised an eyebrow, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Well, here I am sir,” he said dryly. “What’s the occasion?”

  The Colonel ignored the sarcasm, unfolding his hands from behind his back. “You are to report to Churchill War Rooms at 0800 hours,” he said, his tone crisp and professional.

  “Churchill War Rooms?” Emmett repeated, tilting his head. “What’s this about?”

  The Colonel smirked faintly. “No idea,” he said, his eyes glinting with amusement. “But some very important people are eager to meet you. And, Lieutenant...” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. “Try not to embarrass us any further. Dress appropriately and, for God’s sake, stay out of trouble.”

  Emmett tapped the ash from his cigarette, his grin returning. “Hey, I aim to please, Colonel.”

  The Colonel’s eyes narrowed briefly before he turned on his heel, striding toward the door. “Major,” he said sharply, and Lewis quickly followed, though not before sparing a scathing glare at Emmett.

  "Hey, Major Lewis!" Emmett called out, his voice full of mock cheer.

  Lewis paused, turning back with an arched brow and a look that practically screamed, What now?

  "You boys let me know whenever you’re ready for another round of cards," Emmett said, his grin stretching wide.

  Lewis huffed, slamming the door shut on his way out.

  Emmett chuckled to himself, shaking his head as he flicked ash from his cigarette. "Bastards," he muttered, limping back toward his cot. The faint ache in his head and the Colonel’s cryptic orders swirled in his thoughts. Tomorrow was bound to be Interesting.

  Emmett trudged into the dimly lit room, a bundle of fabric draped over his arm. His dress uniform, scrounged from the bottom of his footlocker like a relic of another life. He couldn't remember the last time he wore the thing. Before France? Maybe before he even crossed the Atlantic. It smelled faintly of the trunk’s musty interior, and though he’d done his best to shake out the creases and straighten the fabric, it still looked like it had been through the wringer.

  He rolled his shoulders with a quiet grunt, exhaustion pulling at his bones. It was two in the goddamn morning, and he had to be at the War Rooms at oh-eight-hundred. That meant four, maybe five hours of sleep if he was lucky. And he knew he was not a lucky man. He worked his jaw, his single eye flicking toward the side of his cot, where he carefully draped the uniform over the back of a chair. It would have to do.

  Running a hand down his face, Emmett exhaled sharply. His fingers grazed the rough scars that marred the left side, and he winced slightly at the lingering tenderness.

  He peeled off his boots, his stockings following shortly after, and plopped unceremoniously onto the thin mattress with a grunt. The cot creaked under his weight as he let himself sink into it. He was staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that wouldn’t come quickly enough.

  Beside him, the soldier missing a leg, stirred. The man let out a frustrated huff, shifting with a groan before rolling onto his side. His breath was shallow, pained, but within seconds, he was still again.

  Emmett sighed, rubbing his face once more before letting his arm drop heavily onto his chest. His eye flicked to his watch. 2:07 AM.

  “Short fuckin’ night,” he muttered to himself.

  Emmett swallowed hard, closing his eye. He willed his mind to shut down, to push away the memories.

  He pulled the scratchy blanket over his torso, letting out a slow, deep sigh. His fingers absently brushed against the watch still strapped to his wrist.

  Five hours. That’s all he needed. Just five damn hours.

  June 5, 1944, French Countryside, Plan Vert Operation

  The sun was beginning to set over the French countryside, casting an orange glow over the rolling fields. The air was thick with tension, the scent of damp earth mingling with the faint tang of sweat. The faint chirping of crickets provided an eerie backdrop to the scene.

  Emmett Granger lay prone in the tall grass, his fingers brushing the rough blades beneath him as he adjusted his binoculars. The cold steel against his face grounded him, keeping his nerves steady. He scanned the railway tracks ahead, the explosives carefully hidden beneath the ties just waiting to unleash chaos.

  Nearby, Henri shifted, brushing at his trousers with an annoyed huff. “Mon Dieu, these ants are relentless.” He muttered, his voice a mixture of amusement and irritation. “Perhaps they are German sympathizers, eh? Little collaborators crawling through my pants.”

  “More useful than half the Wehrmacht I’ve seen lately.” Emmett replied dryly.

  Henri nodded, and reached into his coat as if just remembering something. "Emmett, smoke?" He held out a slightly crumpled cigarette.

  Emmett shot him a glare. “No! And put that damn thing away before you get us all killed.” He hissed in a low voice.

  Henri shrugged, slipping the cigarette back into his pocket. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, mon ami. The ants won’t rat us out.”

  Emmett snorted. “I’m not taking any chances. Luck’s been a fickle mistress lately.”

  Henri tilted his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I feel something in the air. Like… a change. Something great is coming, non? Don’t you feel it?”

  Emmett returned his focus to the tracks, his jaw tightening. “I don’t feel anything except ants crawling up my damn trousers. You know me, Henri. I don’t get my hopes up. Less disappointment that way.”

  Henri sighed dramatically, brushing a stray ant off his sleeve. “Ah, ever the pessimist, mon ami.”

  “Damn right.” Emmett muttered, his voice flat.

  A faint wisp of cigarette smoke wafted toward Emmett’s nose, and his glare turned murderous. He sat up slightly and scanned the group, his sharp eyes landing on one of the Headhunters puffing away, oblivious to his previous admonition.

  “Put that thing out.” He hissed in French, his tone sharp enough to cut steel. “Or I swear to God, I’ll shove it up your ass.”

  The man grumbled, rolling his eyes as he stubbed out the cigarette against the dirt. “Merde…”

  Emmett shook his head and settled back into his position, muttering under his breath. “Next idiot who lights up, is going to find themselves tied to the tracks.”

  With a sigh he glanced at the detonator lying nearby, its wires snaking toward the rails. “I want to check the charges again.”

  Henri raised an eyebrow. “You’ve already checked them twice. Will a third time really make a difference?”

  “Probably not.” Emmett admitted, pushing himself up on his elbows. “But it’ll give me peace of mind... maybe”

  Henri gestured toward the others and relayed the plan in quick French as Emmett crept off toward the tracks. The group watched him go, his figure blending into the tall grass.

  Emmett reached the tracks and crouched low, his eyes scanning for any disturbances. He pressed himself flat against the steel rails, inspecting the first charge. The bundle of explosives was nestled neatly beneath the railroad tie. He tugged lightly on the cables, ensuring they were secure. Satisfied, he crawled along the rail to the next charge, repeating the process. Everything was in place.

  The tracks ran along a slight grade, and Emmett glanced down the line, spotting the shrub they’d placed as a visual marker. Simple plan. Wait until the trains cattle guard passed the bush, then detonate. The momentum of the train would do the rest. Easy enough in theory. He pressed an ear to the rail, listening for vibrations. Nothing yet.

  He returned to the group, brushing dirt from his sleeves as he dropped back down beside Henri.

  “All in order?” Henri asked, his tone light.

  Emmett nodded. “Looks like it.”

  Henri shifted uncomfortably, brushing at his trousers. “I swear, the ants are organizing a rebellion in here.”

  “Monsieur! I believe a train is coming.” One of the other fighters hissed suddenly. “I think I hear it!”

  Emmett’s head snapped up, and he grabbed his binoculars, scanning the horizon. “Where?”

  The man crawled closer, pointing in the opposite direction of where they’d been expecting the train. “There, over the hill.”

  Emmett frowned, his brow furrowing as he shifted his focus. Sure enough, a dark shape emerged from the horizon, silhouetted against the faint glow of the sky. It was distant, little more than a shadow at first, but as it crested the hill, details began to take shape.

  The train’s bulk loomed larger with each passing moment. The locomotive, a hulking black mass, belched smoke into the night sky. Behind it stretched a series of boxcars, their silhouettes faint but unmistakable.

  “That’s not where it was supposed to come from.” Emmett muttered, lowering the binoculars.

  Henri leaned closer, his expression puzzled. “A reroute, perhaps? The Germans love their surprises.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Emmett didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the approaching train. A knot of unease tightened in his chest.

  “It’s a big one.” He said finally, his voice low.

  Henri nodded, his earlier humor replaced by a growing tension. “Big enough to be worth all this trouble, oui?”

  “Let’s hope so.” Emmett said grimly, raising the binoculars again. They waited in silence, the tension thick in the air as the train drew closer, its dark shape cutting through the French countryside like a blade.

  The distant rumble of the approaching train grew louder, the steel rails beginning to vibrate faintly under the weight of the locomotive. Emmett crouched low, his hand resting on the detonator. Around him, the resistance fighters lay in the tall grass, their faces alight with anticipation, nerves, and determination. The faint hum of the countryside was drowned out by the metallic clatter of the train, the sound growing with each passing second.

  "About to see some fireworks." Henri murmured, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

  Emmett gave a faint chuckle, his expression a mix of tension and satisfaction. "I just hope to hell we’re far enough away. Wouldn’t be much of a victory if we end up crushed under that thing."

  "Oui, monsieur." Henri replied, his voice carrying a hint of levity. "Not a very poetic end for the HeadHunters, no?"

  "You’re telling me." Emmett muttered, lifting his binoculars and focusing on the train.

  The locomotive emerged fully into view, a hulking black silhouette against the dark horizon. As the train lumbered closer, more details came into focus. Emmett’s sharp eyes scanned the line of cars, some clearly passenger cars, their windows faintly illuminated from within. The flatbeds behind them carried vehicles, their shapes stark and angular. The distinct iron cross painted on their sides caught the faint evening light.

  "Winner, winner, chicken dinner." Emmett quipped, patting Henri’s shoulder and passing him the binoculars.

  Henri snatched them up, peering at the train with excitement. "The iron cross! I see it, Emmett," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "They’re moving armor. Maybe troop transports."

  "Looks like it." Emmett confirmed, his voice tightening with focus.

  The tension in the group was palpable as the train continued its approach. Its powerful horn blasted through the evening air, a deep, mournful sound. Emmett felt his pulse quicken, his fingers flexing unconsciously on the detonator. Around him, a few fighters whispered excitedly, their own binoculars trained on the train. Others shifted nervously, adjusting weapons or wiping sweat from their brows.

  "Steady." Emmett called softly in French, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

  Henri lowered the binoculars, glancing at Emmett. "You feel it, mon ami? The moment before the storm?"

  Emmett smirked, keeping his eyes on the train. "I feel it, Henri. Just keep your head down. Last thing we need is your poetic ass getting hit by debris."

  Henri chuckled, his laugh tinged with adrenaline. "As if lady luck would kill her lover.”

  Emmett grinned faintly but said nothing, his focus returning to the train.

  The massive machine drew closer, the rhythmic clatter of its wheels on the tracks growing louder. Emmett adjusted his grip on the plunger, his hand steady despite the weight of the moment.

  "Viva la Résistance, you sons of bitches." He muttered under his breath.

  The HeadHunters around him grinned, some hooting softly in agreement. The mood, though tense, was electric with the promise of action.

  Emmett adjusted his position slightly, lifting the plunger to its full height. The train was closing in fast now, the engine’s cattle guard hurtling towards the bush. He could see the faint glow of light spilling from the passenger cars.

  "Almost there." He muttered, his voice tight.

  Henri crouched closer to him, holding the binoculars. "It’s coming fast. You’re ready, oui?"

  "Always ready." Emmett replied, his tone clipped as he prepared to press the plunger.

  The train roared closer, the ground trembling beneath it. Emmett’s breath hitched as the shadowed shapes of vehicles on the flatbeds came into clearer view. They were painted gray, the iron crosses stark against their dull metal surfaces.

  Fifty feet. The engine was nearly there.

  Emmett tightened his grip, his knuckles whitening. His eyes flicked briefly to Henri, who gave him a sharp nod.

  "Do it." Henri said softly.

  Emmett adjusted his grip on the handle of the plunger, his focus razor-sharp. The engine’s cattle guard reached the bush, and he prepared to drive the plunger down with all his strength.

  As Emmett pressed down on the plunger, Henri’s voice cut through the din.

  "Emmett! Children!"

  Emmett’s head snapped up. In that split second, he saw them. Faces in the passenger cars. Children, their wide eyes peering out of the windows, their expressions a mix of weariness and curiosity. Mothers sat beside them, some cradling infants, others sitting beside their soldiers.

  A Wehrmacht soldier, his uniform disheveled, sat holding a small child in his arms. The child’s head rested on his shoulder, the soldier’s face etched with exhaustion and tenderness.

  Time seemed to freeze. Emmett’s hand bore down on the plunger, the device moving in slow, deliberate motion. His breath caught in his chest as the weight of what he was seeing collided with the momentum of what he was doing.

  The world narrowed to the pressure beneath his hand, the sound of the train, and the faces illuminated in the passenger car windows.

  An explosion ripped through the night, shattering the stillness and replacing it with a cacophony of chaos. The ground trembled violently as the train’s engine seemed to leap from the tracks, a fiery inferno erupting beneath it. The locomotive twisted unnaturally, the steel bending and shrieking in protest as it tore free from the rails. Cars slammed into one another with deafening crashes, flinging debris and bodies into the air like discarded toys.

  Emmett flattened himself against the dirt, his arms shielding his head as the noise roared over him. The HeadHunters around him did the same, their cries of shock drowned by the grinding of metal and the thunder of destruction. Shrapnel rained down, clanging against the tracks and tearing through the field.

  The sheer force of the blast seemed to stretch time, each moment dragging into the next. The train cars toppled like dominos, some piling onto one another, others rolling off the tracks entirely and smashing into the ground. A flatbed carrying armored transports overturned, the vehicles sliding off with earth-shaking thuds. Sparks flew as steel met steel, and fires broke out among the wreckage, adding a flickering orange glow to the hellish scene.

  Then, as suddenly as it began, the chaos ceased.

  A deafening silence fell, broken only by the faint crackle of flames and the distant wail of a whistle fading into nothing. Dust and smoke filled the air, stinging Emmett’s eyes and throat as he pushed himself up, coughing violently. He squinted against the haze, the outline of the wreckage becoming clearer with each passing second.

  The train was a mangled ruin. Boxcars lay scattered like a child’s abandoned playthings, their contents spilled across the tracks and into the dirt. Flatbeds had been torn apart, their vehicles resting at grotesque angles, some crushed beneath their own weight. Passenger cars had crumpled like paper, windows shattered and walls split open, exposing their interiors to the smoky night.

  Emmett stood, his body trembling as his pulse raced. His rifle was in his hands. His grip tightened around it reflexively, as if bracing for something worse.

  Then he heard it.

  Wails. Cries of pain and terror. The unmistakable sounds of human suffering.

  He froze, his breath catching in his throat as the voices grew louder. Women sobbed hysterically, their screams cutting through the night. Men shouted in desperation, calling out names that went unanswered. Children’s cries rose and fell, high-pitched and piercing, mingling with the groans of the injured and the dying.

  "Let’s go!" One of the HeadHunters barked, breaking Emmett’s trance.

  Emmett didn’t move. His eyes were locked on the wreckage, his mind racing.

  "Mon ami! Let’s go!" Henri shouted, pulling at Emmett’s sleeve.

  "You bunch go on ahead." Emmett said, his voice flat and distant. His gaze never left the train.

  Henri hesitated, looking between Emmett and the others. With a frustrated growl, he waved the rest of the group forward. They hesitated for a moment before sprinting across the field, rifles at the ready.

  Emmett began walking toward the tracks.

  "What are you doing?" Henri hissed, following after him. His rifle was gripped tightly in his hands, his eyes darting nervously.

  Emmett didn’t answer. He stepped over the twisted remains of a flatbed car, dust kicking up under his feet.

  Henri paused, his boot catching on something. He looked down to see a man lying face down in the dirt, his body unnaturally still. Henri’s stomach turned as he realized the man’s arm was bent at an impossible angle, his head caved in from the impact.

  Emmett kept walking, his boots crunching against shattered glass and debris.

  "Kids." He muttered, his voice barely audible. "There weren’t supposed to be kids."

  Henri swallowed hard, his throat dry. "They must have been going to Germany. Families returning from France." He said quietly, his voice tinged with disbelief.

  Emmett nodded stiffly, his steps slow and deliberate. Around them, the wreckage was a grim tableau of human suffering.

  A woman’s arm jutted out from beneath a crushed passenger car, her lifeless hand still clutching a child’s doll. Nearby, a soldier lay sprawled on the ground, his body twisted and broken, his face frozen in a mask of shock.

  Choked cries filled the air. "Hilfe... hilfe," a man’s voice groaned weakly.

  Emmett turned toward the sound of wailing. It was guttural and raw, a cry of pure anguish.

  "Meine Erika!" the voice screamed, piercing the night.

  Emmett followed the voice, his expression unreadable. Henri trailed behind him, his steps faltering as he took in the devastation around them.

  He nearly tripped over a child. A girl, no older than nine, lay half-buried beneath a section of a boxcar. Her eyes stared up at him, glassy and dull, as if accusing him. Henri staggered back, bile rising in his throat.

  Emmett stepped into a space where a boxcar had split in half. A Wehrmacht soldier sat in the wreckage, his uniform bloodied and torn. He clutched a small child in his arms, rocking back and forth as he sobbed uncontrollably.

  "Meine Erika... warum?" The man wailed, his voice breaking.

  Emmett approached slowly, his face devoid of emotion. The soldier looked up, his bloodshot eyes meeting Emmett’s.

  "Warum?" The man repeated, his voice trembling.

  Emmett stared at him for a long moment, then drew his revolver.

  "Emmett!" Henri hissed, his voice sharp with alarm.

  Emmett cocked the hammer back, the sound sharp in the stillness.

  "I’m sorry." Emmett said quietly, his voice flat and hollow.

  The soldier’s sobs stopped abruptly as the gunshot rang out. His head snapped back, and he collapsed onto his back, still clutching the lifeless body of his child.

  Emmett stood over him for a moment, his revolver hanging limply at his side. Then he turned sharply, storming past Henri without a word.

  Henri hesitated, his eyes flicking between the wreckage and Emmett’s retreating figure. The air was thick with smoke and the cries of the dying, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a physical force.

  Finally, he followed Emmett, his steps heavy.

  "We’re damned for this, Emmett." Henri said miserably, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Emmett didn’t respond. He kept walking, his jaw clenched and his eyes moist, though no tears fell.

  June 28th, 1944 Beaulieu-sur-Argonne

  The room was steeped in darkness, save for the soft silver glow of the moon spilling through the open window. The countryside lay bathed in an eerie stillness, a fragile peace that seemed almost mocking after the horrors of the day.

  Emmett lay on the narrow bed, his body still and tense, his gaze fixed out the window as though the night sky could offer him some kind of solace.

  For the longest time, he didn’t say a word.

  Adele nestled against him, her warmth a quiet offering of comfort. She hadn’t pressed him when he came back, his steps heavy and shoulders bowed as though carrying the weight of the world. Instead, she’d simply guided him to her room, her presence steady and calm as they lay down together.

  Eventually, her hand moved, her fingers seeking his. When she found them, she gently threaded her fingers through his, her soft squeeze grounding him, even if only a little.

  “What happened?” she asked softly, her voice careful, as though afraid to shatter the delicate silence.

  For a moment, Emmett didn’t respond. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and his voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

  “Kids,” he said hoarsely. “Families, Adele. A whole damn train full of them.”

  His words hung heavy in the air. Adele’s heart ached at the raw anguish in his voice. She pressed a kiss against his neck, her lips lingering there as if she could somehow absorb some of his pain.

  Emmett didn’t respond, his body stiff beneath her touch.

  “You’ve done enough,” she said gently, her voice trembling with emotion. “For everyone. Don’t you think it’s time to find some peace?”

  For a long time, Emmett remained silent. His eyes stayed fixed on the moonlit countryside, the muscles in his jaw tightening as her words swirled in his mind.

  “I can’t,” he said finally, his voice low and worn. “I’ve got too much invested. America’s here now... We’re finally pushing them back. I can’t stop, Adele. Not yet.”

  She propped herself up slightly, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Emmett,” she murmured, her tone heavy with concern. “You’ve been fighting here for almost three years. You’ve already almost died so many times. Is it not enough?”

  He remained quite, not answering her.

  Adele bit her lip, her brows furrowing as she studied him. She didn’t know the full depth of what haunted him, but she could see the weight of it in every line of his face. “Maybe...” she ventured cautiously, “you could take us to Montana. Me and Julien. Leave all of this behind. Take us to your home.”

  Emmett’s chest tightened. His thoughts snapped back to Margerite. No, he wasn’t done running from that mistake. And now, with what had happened on the tracks, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop running.

  He shook his head slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

  Adele waited for an answer, but when no answer came, she sighed softly and lay back down beside him. “I’d love to see Montana,” she said quietly, a faint wistfulness in her voice. “It sounds wonderful.”

  Emmett simply nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

  She nestled against him once more, her breathing steadying as she drifted into sleep.

  But sleep didn’t come for Emmett.

  He lay there, his mind a storm of memories, guilt, and that one word that refused to leave him.

  Warum?

  The German soldier’s broken voice echoed in his mind, the image of the man clutching his lifeless child burned into his vision. The scene replayed endlessly, each detail sharper than the last.

  “I’m sorry,” Emmett whispered into the darkness, his voice trembling.

  He repeated it again, and again, his words a haunted mantra that filled the silence.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry...”

  London, 1945 – Staging Base

  A hand on his shoulder. A firm shake.

  Emmett stirred with a grunt, his mind clawing its way back from the warmth of sleep. Adele… The lingering echoe of her voice, her warmth against him. It all evaporated the moment his eye cracked open. Reality came rushing in like a cold tide.

  He blinked blearily, his body slow to react, as though resisting consciousness itself. The dim glow of a lantern in the room cast shifting shadows along the walls. It wasn’t Adele’s home. It was the cold, cramped quarters of a repurposed hospital, somewhere in London.

  A young soldier stood beside him, shifting uncomfortably, his uniform slightly rumpled from the long night watch. He cleared his throat and muttered, “You asked to be woken at six, sir.”

  Emmett just stared at him for a moment, disoriented, his fingers twitching toward the empty space beside him. She was just there… But his hand met only the scratchy wool blanket and the cold edge of the cot. His fingers curled into a loose fist.

  “Are you alright?” the young man asked, frowning. “You kept saying ‘I’m sorry’ in your sleep.”

  Emmett’s face twisted into a scowl, the haze of sleep quickly giving way to irritation. “Go fuck yourself,” he muttered, his voice rough and gravelly.

  The soldier’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression shifting from concern to barely concealed annoyance. He raised his hands in a half-hearted placating gesture, shaking his head as he turned toward the door. “Right. Have a great morning, sir,” he muttered, disappearing into the dimly lit hallway.

  Emmett exhaled heavily, rubbing his face with both hands, wincing slightly when his fingers brushed the still-tender scars. His head was pounding, an ache that had settled deep in his skull, made worse by the restless night. He blinked the exhaustion from his eye and swung his legs over the edge of the cot, the cold floor biting at his bare feet.

  His gaze drifted to the stand beside him, where his dress uniform hung in the low light. He sighed, rolling his shoulders, already dreading the long day ahead.

  Emmett pushed himself up with a groan, his joints stiff, his muscles protesting the movement. He stepped toward the washbasin, still filled with murky water from the night before. He splashed some onto his face, hissing as the cold bit into his skin, washing away the last remnants of sleep.

  With slow, methodical movements, he pulled his uniform off the stand. The dark olive-green fabric was still stiff from disuse, the pressed lines long since faded.

  He started with his shirt, sliding into it with practiced ease, buttoning it up with deliberate, steady fingers. The fabric felt foreign against his skin, too clean, too formal. He pulled on his trousers and then next came the tie, which he looped and pulled tight with a slight grimace. He had always hated the damn things, but if the brass wanted him presentable, then fine, he’d play the part.

  His jacket came next. The weight of it settled over his shoulders, familiar but distant. The silver bars of a First Lieutenant gleamed on the epaulets. The ribbons on his chest… there was a lot he needed to add.

  Finally, he buckled his belt, adjusting the fit before stepping back, eyeing himself critically in the cracked mirror above the washbasin.

  The image staring back at him was a jarring contrast. His uniform was pristine, sharp, and authoritative. But the left side of his face? That was something else entirely. The hallow socket, the scars carved deep into his cheek made him look like something out of a nightmare.

  Emmett smirked humorlessly at his reflection. Damn, you’re an ugly bastard.

  He turned his head slightly, taking in the way the uniform sat against his broken face. It was almost ironic. He looked like a proper Lieutenant from the right angle, a respectable officer. But tilt just a little to the left, and he was something else entirely. A monster in a uniform.

  Reaching for his eyepatch, he slid it over the hollow socket, adjusting the strap until it was snug. The black leather was a familiar weight, covering the worst of the damage, though it did little to hide the truth.

  He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair, feeling the ridges of his scarred scalp beneath his fingers. His head still throbbed from last night’s brawl at The Crown and Anchor, but he didn’t have time to wallow.

  It was going to be a long day. He turned away from the mirror, grabbed his coat and dress hat, and stepped toward the door.