I was reclining in a wide, cream-colored business-class seat on the tarmac at Frankfurt Airport, legs stretched out farther than I remembered on most aircraft. My back sank into padding that felt divine after everything in Afghanistan. The cabin around me was filled with soft chimes, muted conversations, and the low whine of auxiliary power as the A380 finished boarding.

  I didn't question how the military got me a business-class ride home; I just chalked it up to Stark.

  I leaned my head back and stared at the ceiling panels, letting the hum wash over me. It felt nice to relax and not worry about being killed by the Ten Rings or taken to a black site by the deep state.

  The seat beside me shifted. A woman mid-thirties, maybe, settled in, elegant in a way that screamed consultant or corporate. She gave me a polite, fleeting smile before opening a hardcover book and disappearing into it completely.

  I didn't blame her. I probably looked like hell: tired eyes, a little too thin, my posture still half-alert even when I was trying to relax. I tugged the hoodie I'd bought at the airport a little tighter and exhaled.

  The aircraft doors were still open. Loading trucks moved slowly outside the window.

  My mind drifted backward.

  It had taken me three weeks to leave the military.

  I'd been sitting on a cot inside a controlled billeting area, waiting.

  I hadn't seen Stark again after that conversation.

  What I did see was Happy. He showed up two days later, unannounced, filling the doorway like a bouncer who'd taken a wrong turn.

  "Eli, I need a minute of your time," he'd asked.

  He brought a tablet with him.

  "Medical board's recommendation came through," Happy said, swiping through forms like this was just another Tuesday. "You're being placed on ninety-day convalescent leave, effective immediately."

  I blinked at him. "That's... fast."

  "Yeah," he'd said dryly. "Funny how things move when the right people sign off."

  He handed me the tablet and tapped the screen with a thick finger. "Sign here. And here. Initial that. Don't worry, nothing's going to harm you."

  I signed.

  "And this?" I asked, scrolling. "This says..."

  "Medical discharge with full honors," Happy finished. "Non-combat fit, physical trauma, long-term recovery. You're done."

  I stared at him for a long moment.

  "That's it?" I asked. "Didn't you guys want a statement?"

  He smirked just a little. "You'll give one if we need one."

  Something in my chest finally loosened then.

  "Paperwork'll catch up in a few months," he added.

  I leaned back against the wall and let out a long breath. "I'm out, then."

  Happy nodded. "Yes, you are."

  Things moved fast after that conversation. A Globemaster lifted me out of Afghanistan that same week without any fanfare, just a seat bolted into the hull. They dropped me off at Ramstein Air Base in Germany, where I spent two quiet days in a temporary barracks, left alone for processing.

  That was where the discharge became real. There wasn't much to be done. They just gave me a stack of documents, a final signature, and a sergeant who shook my hand and said, "Good luck and thank you, Specialist."

  They issued me a basic civilian kit: some plain clothes, toiletries, a small allowance. I was lucky my wallet had survived the ambush; the leather was scarred, but my ID and cards were intact. I'd bought a hoodie, a neck pillow, and a cheap pair of noise-canceling headphones.

  Forty minutes by car from Ramstein to Saarbrücken. I remembered watching the countryside roll by and thinking how absurdly green everything looked.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," the flight attendant said, her voice smooth and practiced but with an accent, "we will begin our safety demonstration shortly..."

  I blinked, her voice pulling me back to the present.

  The aircraft doors at the front closed with a muted thud. The docking bridge retracted. A low vibration ran through the cabin as the engines began to spool up.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  I adjusted the neck pillow, settling in properly this time.

  The flight attendant moved through the aisle, demonstrating the proper procedures for the seatbelts, oxygen masks, and exits. I watched without really seeing, my mind drifting again, this time forward instead of back.

  Home. Eli's home.

  The Codex stirred faintly in my chest. Like it knew this was just the beginning.

  The aircraft began to roll backward from the terminal, pushed by the tug. The movement was slow, deliberate.

  As the plane turned toward the runway, the captain's voice came over the intercom.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are cleared for departure. Flight time today will be approximately nine hours to New York. Thank you for flying with Lufthansa."

  I stopped listening halfway through.

  The engines roared.

  The acceleration pressed me into the seat, firm and undeniable. The runway lights blurred past the window, faster and faster, until the ground dropped away entirely and the aircraft lifted into the sky.

  I closed my eyes.

  I did it, I thought. I got out.

  Somewhere over the Atlantic, the plane flew at cruising speed.

  Nine hours blurred together as I quietly rested. The cabin lights dimmed, then brightened again. People shifted, stretched, stood in the aisle, disappeared toward the lavatories and returned. The woman beside me read for a while, then slept, then read again, her bookmark inching forward page by page.

  A flight attendant stopped by with a quiet smile and asked if I wanted dinner.

  I said yes.

  The tray that appeared in front of me felt unreal in its normalcy: a small salad with vinaigrette, warm bread wrapped in foil, soft butter, and a main dish, some kind of beef with potatoes and vegetables that tasted better than it had any right to at thirty-five thousand feet. I ate slowly, tasting the dish.

  Wine was offered. I declined. I did not want to get drunk. Instead, I drank water. A lot of it.

  Later, there was a snack: cheese, crackers, something sweet I couldn't identify but ate anyway. At some point, I dozed, head tilted against the window, waking only when turbulence rattled the cabin hard enough to make a few people gasp.

  The seatbelt sign flicked on. The plane shuddered briefly, then steadied. The captain reassured us it was nothing unusual. No one wanted that kind of trouble over the vast ocean.

  I stared out the window at darkness broken only by the faint reflection of cabin lights and the occasional blink of the wingtip.

  When the lights came up again, I realized we were almost there.

  The plane touched down with a jolt that rattled through my bones.

  The engines roared in reverse, then wound down to a low growl as the aircraft decelerated and turned off the runway. I looked out the window and saw the familiar sprawl of New York through low gray clouds: runways stretching into the distance, service roads slick with moisture, the flat expanse of Jamaica Bay glittering under afternoon sunlight. Farther off, the city itself loomed, skyscrapers half-hidden in haze.

  We taxied slowly toward the gate.

  When the seatbelt sign finally chimed off, I stood immediately, duffel slung over one shoulder. Business class had its perks; I was among the first out when the doors opened.

  The jet bridge smelled like rubber and jet fuel, sharp and oddly comforting. My boots echoed as I crossed into it, the solid thud of them on metal. Inside, the terminal corridor stretched long and wide, lit by rows of fluorescent tubes that buzzed faintly overhead. The carpet beneath my feet was industrial gray-blue, worn thin in the middle where millions of footsteps had passed before mine. Green-and-white signs hung from the ceiling at regular intervals:

  Arrivals Customs Baggage Claim

  This is it. I'm back home.