Burning light. Just in the end of the tunnel, above his squinted glare. Gravity dragged down his will to climb the ladder to freedom. Didn't matter about strength, not technique. Below only awaited darkness. Just as he held into the step to give some breather to his arms, a pained shriek from the upside echoed in every side of the circular hole.

His grab suddenly lost its jam. Somehow falling didn't make him feel in danger, the breeze cooling his back and senses. Was-was that black smoke trailing him? What kind of end of tunnel was what?

The fall couldn't be for eternity. He was ready to take the hit, and die again? Dying twice. Huh.

Soon enough, the smoke got lost in the darkness, along the few light coming from the end, and fist clenched, he braced for impact.

"Giving up already? C'mon! This ain't what I expected for a Wild Thursday! Bottoms up!"

Mark landed on a wooden stool, swaying it to the rear, barely grabbing the long surface he faced. Jordan, beside him, raised a tiny glass with brownish liquid, with a teensy smirk.

"You sure are interesting, mate." The detective poured down the glass into his mouth, as his muscles dimmed to the stress. Shaking his head would spread the effect down to every inch in his body. Well, as long as it didn't numb entirely.

Seeing his friend grab his own head with every bit of his face strained as a bunch of wrinkles, Jordan tapped twice right next to Mark's lonely still filled glass.

"Know the answer!"

"Ow."

Whiskey. Fancy, yet served its purpose. The ounce and a half on Mark's glass vanished soon enough, distracting the twinge with the everlasting bitter. He preferred coffee by miles away.

The bandages over his forearm lowered the itch, even forgetting how that ended up there.

"Something shady, Mark? It's not like I didn't notice those white layers in your forearm, eh."

"It's a bruise." Mark quickly moved his left hand's cover. "I tripped on the way home."

"Sure…" Jordan diverted his eyes to the entrance door. The cause of the shaking bell piqued interest in any future story, be it whatever one-night stand or months-long relationship before it ends up in hate and sorrow.

A peculiar blonde entering made the detective grin from ear to ear. It made him feel weird though. Being thrilled for someone else's possible happiness hasn't been on the menu for a while, with envy out of the table.

Mark's aura tricked any approach he could think of. After years of knowing each other, Jordan's opportunity to show off as a wingman came up, and his friend entered crippling depression. For crap's sake.

Normally apathy was enough to make Jordan know of the former soldier's bad mood about any women coming close. For some reason, Grace broke that protection layer, though. She didn't even hesitate to answer that question, proud of herself.

Both had nearly stayed silent since the first shot. Even if it was just the third, Jordan scratched his chin. Something wasn't right.

Having 'Mute' as a nickname didn't mean he didn't start up conversations. Last month they ended up talking about the Moon's conspiracy, Janis Joplin living with JFK in Scotland, and some reptiles controlling the oil business around the world, demons dressed in suits, or a simpler ghost.

Rather than thinking about convos, Jordan better started one.

"You alright? You look even shittier than most days, Marky."

"I know. I'm just having trouble sleeping, that's all. You look worse than me that way, Jordan."

That shyness of smirk coming out made an outstanding progress. Yet he kept avoiding eye contact, staring at his empty glass.

Rejected, Jordan's view wandered, ending in the calendar, behind the barman serving to a lone guy on the other side of the bar. April stomped its presence over the thirty other days, twelve crossed with a mark.

Wait, April? Oh, he should've known. Last year's Mark had been the same. Though self-harm worried the detective a bit. It didn't even cross his mind having to deal with such stuff when so deep struggling into his own life.

Yeah, Mark did trip, landing on his forearm. Of course it wasn't any knife cut or such.

"Seen her letter again, huh?"

"Yes. Looking for this." The soldier upped his freshly bandaged forearm.

"Going for another round, fellas?" The bearded barman popped up, with a red labeled bottle in possession.

Jordan got 'round' on the words, making him nod in response. Mark just pushed his glass to the bartender, his eyes fixed in the same point.

As soon as the former soldier caught the sliding glass back, he poured the liquor inside his throat. Two wide-opened eyes watched in disbelief, making their owner do the same as well.

"Why not burn it? You know she'll never come back, bud. It's been almost four years."

Mark shrugged, swaying in his stool. The negation came over his body, not just a headshake.

Each letter, nearly mint preserved, with just the cut to open the envelope. Every had its own answer, finding time between his work and rounds, or losing precious hours of sleep under the huge green tent.

The tiny numbers of the weapons' management squad made them share tents, sometimes forcing Mark to use the occasional wood fire when the lamp light bothered a superior's slumber.

When intel planned the possible night operations, he always watched them from the sidelines. With six months in the service, he had only gone out for exploration and reconnaissance a couple of times.

Engineers were valuable, and even if Mark hadn't finished his degree, he still knew things that the rest, with their brawn and foul language, didn't.

The companies' numbers filled with recruits, marking the outset of a war of endurance. Such a split from expendable resources and those that were not.

That specific night, a shelter/hotel lit up the dense jungle, about 25 miles from Hilo. An infantry unit shared the place with Mark's squad, perking up the mood. The work they used to do together had slowly forged an alliance between the two, not missing the occasional brawl.

A couple of hours ago, a Soviet helicopter crashed near the area, shot down by artillery, with confirmed red casualties. For some reason no search operation had been ordered, but according to the latest losses, the higher ups weren't going to put soldiers' lives on a chance, for some dumb reason like looking for Soviet survivors from a missile explosion.

Mark enjoyed the nocturne wind, alone in the trio of logs just outside the hotel. The sky was full of clouds, so the moon was ruled out as a source of light, and the campfire danced in the wind.

The fidget of the paper, refusing to stay flat, folding itself with the breeze, adding the blunt pencil made writing a hell of an experience.

His mentality and concentration kindled, he managed to write the first word, with suddenly a thunderous noise cut across the sky, crushing the trace of the second.

Looking up, a couple of raindrops bounced on his nose, trailing down to his ears. Such freshness seemed from another planet, after so stress right through the spine and nerves. Bad humor spread like a disease among the soldiers, even those who hardly participated in active fire.

Steadily losing faith.

Minutes after, face showered and clothes a bit damp, and the paper covered with a few drops on it, Mark decided to return. With a vague eyebrow move, he greeted the two guards. He didn't know them, nor did he catch their names on their uniforms, but one carried a shotgun, the other a large metal bar.

Curious choice of weapons, with better options in the supply crates that had been brought in several days ago.

Making his way to the kitchen, he looked for a place where he could write in peace, other than the bedrooms. The empty laundry room didn't look like a good option though, due to the laughter and shouts from the poker players from the dining, right next to it.

The area of the energy levers and electric boxes, discarded at sight.

"Nice rain, huh, Mute?" His squadmate Hoyt asked Mark as soon as he got spotted. His glasses shone with the reflection of the fluorescent light above the two.

"…"

"I just hope we don't have to cut the power again. It's frigging hard to get these old generators back up and running."

Mark kept moving. The locker rooms, also out of bounds. The weapons were casually scattered around, along with their respective ammunition.

"Wow, that quick, Mute? Your girlfriend doesn't deserve so much love anymore? I could do it for you if you don't mind, dude."

"…"

"Hitch."

"Jackson."

"Can please stop screwing around and work? Caps will slaughter us if we don't have this finished by tomorrow."

"Tch."

Hitch, envious and missing ephemeral encounter with random women, and Jackson, grumpy to the nerve. Every month Mark received the same comment, yet used to the bother by now.

The computer and radio room, neither. Empty, but the electrical buzz made impossible for him to link sentiments with words together. Also, that the interference of the thunder made the noise even worse.

Fortunately, the next small room had a single dweller, sitting on a sofa. A large, dark-skinned man whose lavishly embroidered uniform bore the name Grunch. Mark tilted his head and frowned a little. Were all the members of his squad been lined up or something?

The large man let out a laugh burst, straight at the television, whose VHS lights were on.

Way long ago, Hawaii had lost its open signal, though.

"Hello Mark. Nasty storm, aye?

"Hm."

"If you want to write here, go ahead, but don't expect pure silence. Funny movies deserve to be laughed at, hehe."

Yes, everyone knew what Mark had gone outside to do. Perhaps even the infantrymen did know too.

Mark sat down on the floor to Grunch's right, next to some cabinets and shelves, right in the middle of two windows, which gave a view of the terrace. The rain continued to fall profusely, but nothing serious, except for the thunder rumble cut off.

The bathroom crossed his mind, but neither the echo nor the fact of having two doors were pleasant factors to take it as a serious option.

Using his knees for support, he followed the second word: her name.

"Emma."

Showing how much he missed her or easing her concern should work as a follow up. Having made it clear that he wasn't in any serious danger at any time, that didn't stop her from asking over again, not taking to heart those carefree words.

However, as Mark finished the first sentence, footsteps creaked the floor nearby, at an unusual pace. Like wounded, without the 1 2 march of any normal and healthy soldier. Not hesitating, he glanced sideways at the source.

A bright yellow eye passed to his right, just outside the room's entrance. Grunch was still laughing, totally oblivious to what was going on.

A yellow eye, resembling a feline predator. But this one lacked the menacing aura, or skill. He could barely move. Like a hunter asking for help among the preys.

Mark sensed the not rhythmical footsteps now on the terrace. There were voices of foot soldiers coming from there, but none of them alerted, following their trivial chatter.

Behind Grunch were three windows, two of which had their curtains drawn, the third broken, revealing the passageway, revealing the intruder.

A bald man, his hands covered in blood, limped toward the infirmary. He was seriously injured, to the point of having to lean against the wall to keep from fainting in the middle of the hallway.

Mark blinked. Not knowing what to do, he looked at Grunch, still focused on his film. As he stood up, in order to check whom the injured man was, one of the infantrymen came up from the floor below.

The latter greeted him raising his eyebrows, surprised to see him staring at the infirmary.

The newcomer seemed not to have noticed the intruder, heading straight for the exit, but he backed away half a second later, drawing the pistol from his belt.

"Don't you fucking move! Tony, we have a commie down here!"

Grunch looked at Mark this time, and, without turning off the VHS, they quickly rushed to the callout.

Another infantry member climbed up the stairs below, a rifle in his hands. Seeing Mark and the big man, he narrowed his eyes with scorn.

"You've got to be kidding me. Has nobody been keeping watch?"

In a matter of seconds, the entrance to the infirmary got packed with soldiers who had NOT noticed the red's presence.

"Commander, we've got a red down here in the infirmary. Point H-40. Please acknowledge."

The radio, on loudspeaker, also revealed the superior's annoyance.

"How the hell did he end up there? Damn, he must be from the taken down chopper. Is he armed?"

Not, even wandering to come up with silly made fictional ideas, could the Russian do anything to them. A wound in his abdomen forced him to apply pressure there, stopping the profuse hemorrhage. Only one of his eyes was visible, the other filled with blood and swollen.

"Hands up! Don't test me, pal!" The soldier with the m16 took aim again, between the yellow eyes.

"Easy, easy. Sir, he's bleeding and unarmed. Kind of half-alive. He looks tough, though. Such wounds would have killed anyone in seconds."

"To shit with war crimes. Get him patched up and put him on a truck, right away to Hilo. Let's see how much intel we can get from this one."

"Yes, sir, Lewis out."

Without saying another word, the soldier with the rifle took various steps to the Russian, never moving the direction of the muzzle, until he got into the point-blank range.

"You try something, you are dead."

Mark glanced at the mustache rifleman. How was he so sure the Russian understood?

The yellow-eyed heavy breathing stopped for an instant, falling on one of his knees.

"Bring the medic ASAP! Fucking hell, how did I end up saving some commie's ass life?"

Slowly the traffic dissipated in the corridor of the infirmary. Only Mark, the doctor, and Lewis were there.

"If you spot it, you have to shoot the word asap, boy. He could have killed us all."

"I thought he was an animal, Lieutenant."

"Animal, person, whatever, he could have taken out one of ours. We can't lose any, Corporal."

"Yes, lieutenant."

They both watched the medic doing his best to close the wounds of the already unconscious Russian, with Grunch's laughter nearby.

"Aren't you going to finish your letter?"

Yes, infantry was included in the know. Seriously, receiving letters was so strange? Were they all forgotten by their families?

"..." Mark nodded twice, slowly backing away and walking to his own position near the VHS.

"Not all of us have someone waiting at home, Marky. Enjoy what you have, while you can." Grunch growled at him as he watched him throw away his first attempted love letter.

Two men half-embraced each other, with stools next to each, singing the same song, excited and drunk. 25 and 35 years old, and their respective empty glasses on the rise.

"In my life…" Mark's voice, rusty from disuse, but completely unashamed.

"There's been heartache and pain...!" Jordan's voice, many times better, straightened the disturbance made on the waves.

Remembering Emma hadn't done Mark any good, causing last year's result to repeat itself. Another test of his alcohol tolerance, and the proud former soldier wouldn't turn the detective down.

The clientele kept its regular flow on this fine Thursday. With many people coming and going, Mark didn't notice how special was the blonde from several tables away, with her bald brother, her big lumberjack friend, and the Miami Dolphins fan.

None looked particularly annoyed by Mark's vocals, but having him do the singing solo, better not push anyone's luck. The bartender himself enjoyed the little show, moving along the rhythm, turning up the volume a little.

"I wanna know what love is…!" Jordan sang up, closing his eyes.

Mark chose to follow in vibe, unable to go through the chorus. Even drunk he knew any kind of detune would break a bottle nearby. Lowering his shot glass to the bar, he tapped it twice, to alert the bartender, without distracting the top singer.

The bearded man raised an eyebrow, uncertain. Mark banged the glass on the bar again, this time staring at the man in the smart apron. After sighing, knowing that it could cause a lot of trouble, the full glass was returned to the former soldier.

A recharge for his painless armor. Well, almost. That's why he never mentioned her. That's why…

"There's so much love!" Mark accompanied Jordan's voice, almost to the end.

"Oh, you just can't hide…! Woo! I love karaoke, Marky!"

"Noticed front seat. Hahaha."

"Oh, now that I remember. Hey, barman!"

"Another round, sir?" The bearded man didn't look in the least pleased.

"Nah, not for me. For now, I mean. You see that table with the blonde?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Serve them another round, of whatever they're having. It's on him." Jordan pointed at Mark with his chin.

"What? Blonde who? Jordan?"

"Sir, they're only having beer."

"Oh, which boring girl did you fall for, man? Alright, spice them up with one of these." Jordan pointed to the big champagne.

"Wait, is she here? Fuck!"

"No, no, you're not getting away, you lame pipsqueak!"

Despite the high booze levels in his blood, Mark still gave fight to Jordan firm grip, tying him down on the stool. Clearly Jordan wasn't in the bit as drunk as him.

At some help, too, because fleeing would mean passing right through the entrance, facing her anyway.

"I just need another." Mark sighed, seeing the bartender serve the four glasses to Alex, brother and her friends.

"Done, sir." The bearded announced as he returned, then lowered his tone. "The blonde girl was particularly pleased."

"See? It isn't impossible when you try, my man!"

"Sure, Jordan. Sure."

As the tunes changed to something rockier, Mark's gaze played to their direction. The four were a little chattier, with Ash poking some fun of his burly friend.

"Now, what do we do next?" Jordan peeked into Mark's gawk, startling him a bit.

"Beats me. Do I look like a pick-up master, Trace?"

"I can't just give my secrets, Marky! Ahm… You, barman, do you have a name?"

"You can just call me Beard, sir. Going for the next round now?"

"Naw, not yet. You know how to help this maggot? He's fond of the blonde girl over there, as you may know."

Mark had his cheeks already red, so it couldn't fluster more at the listen of that sentence. Even when Jordan was talking so loud those words reached Alex.

"Hmm… I'd just say to try a slow but steady approach, but she's with company though. It's tricky, sir."

"Yeah, figured." The detective suddenly faced Mark. "You sure none of them is her boyfriend/gi eff, aye?"

A nod was all Jordan got from the former soldier. The alcohol finally started to numb his limbs.

"Perhaps when she's going to the restroom, sir? I don't think her guy friends would be there as well."

"Sounds like a plan."

"In a minute." Mark jumped and sneaked out of Jordan's grip on his shoulder, three hops into the bathroom.

Dizzy enough to bump into the door on the right, with the left one having a skirt on, focused enough to aim inside the toilet. Almost every worry vanished as he washed his face. His scars didn't ache for once, yet it made him feel… dead.

Colors started to replace the darkness in his closed eyes. As his image slowly started to turn into a raccoon. It didn't make sense. Why? Now drunk, was he having second thoughts?

"Emma."

Her name resonated in his ears. Just like hours ago at the gym, he didn't just see Alex there. Did he just lose something? No, how can someone lose something two times in a row without getting it back to lose it again?

"Once lost, nothing comes back again."

His own voice, serious and harsh, spoke to him from behind, making Mark open his eyes. The wounded military persona, bleeding all over, saw him through the mirror.

Crossed arms, yet giving a smug of confidence, instead of the raunchy one he gave in his home. Mark tried to swiftly turn around, just barely keeping balance, air covering the supposed extra presence.

Glaring back to the mirror, his reflection covered his shoulder with a hand. His touch sense didn't feel more than a breeze.

"You sure did lose it way before, yes? It's not like a big change. Sixty-four to fourteen… Is that even worth comparing, Mute?"

"…"

No hurt zones, but dizziness felt way worse, just in time to go to the toilet again, and throw up.

The acid creeping down his throat felt horrible, coughs worsening it. Even with pain out of the question, uneasiness swarmed his booze.

"You… are not me." His voice died as he tried to speak to the air, getting out of the toilet cabin. He knew nothing was there.

"And why did you do it? Do you like hurting people just because?" The mirror answered, filthy sneer on his face again.

Colors overcame the white light, flashing purple, pink and red. Taking two steps he punched to the mirror, nearly venting all the anger and frustration he gathered in those three minutes.

A tiny scratch traced in the reflective glass from the hit. Mark deeply sighed, trying to focus again. Shaking his head, he tried wandering to flush the toilet, having forgotten just to answer his evil image.

Sure that wasn't a drunk fantasy. No.

Nothing a mint and a second apparition-less quick wash couldn't fix. Alcohol still lingering in his body, he pulled the door.

Two women came right into his direction. Mark quickly got himself out of the way, as his mind had the habit to. The black haired one strolled past him, ignoring his existence, but the blonde stopped in the middle of the way, parallel to his resting point.

That face, he wouldn't mistake even exchanging the alcohol from blood inside his vessels. And now, a counter didn't part them.

"Hi, Mark." The dim yellow light over the two, let the former soldier catch the rosy cheeks, and lipstick over her.

"Hey, A-alex. Fa-an-cy meeting you here." Words were a bit dragged, the result of taking three shots in a row, ALREADY drunk.

"Thanks for the bottle. I mean, we needed that. I've got someone broke in my lines, so…"

"No problem. Though, I, uh… I'd like you…?"

No, vocal cords, NO.

"You'd like me… to what?" Alex pushed towards Mark, as some other dude, dashed to the bathroom.

"Emergency, emergency!"

"Hehe." A chuckle was all he had. Even if she was so close now, it didn't match the one at the store. So a quick solution came up in his head.

Mark waved his hand between their parting distance, palm down. Alex complied after closing her eyelids a bit, positioned herself beside him, inches if not millimeters away.

"Wha…?"

The former soldier didn't let her turn, planting a kiss on her cheek, the one with her eye uncovered. Her skin gave off a lemon aroma, lingering even when Mark withdrew, happily unscathed, and leaving her frozen in place, but her greens following his steps intently.

The stool free, right next to Jordan awaited, with a cheeky smirking detective, and a bearded barman polishing bright glasses with a red cloth.

"A bit unorthodox, but effective! Stalking a prey and attacking when she's alone… You were made for it, Mark!"

A head shake stood his will against being a creep. Being a vet trashed his reputation a bit too much already.

"Anyways, you outdid yourself. When's the date?"

Mark's browns suddenly diverted from his friend. Vocal cords unavailable, how could he make the question?

"I guess it was too good to be true, really. Another round, Beard. This sorry ass is getting a date today. One way, or another."

"Coming right up, sir."

Both glasses, filled, emptied into both throats. The warmth contested with the funny feeling on Mark's chest, yet none gave any trace of domination over the other.

Just as the flaming delight made its way to his legs, Mark glanced at Beard's glass polish. Seeing the cloth, his brain's bulb popped light.

Tapping three times over the bar, he regained the barman's attention. Mark, with his two hands, touched his own lips from the center to the corners, hoping the employee would catch the gist.

"Napkin? Here, sir."

"Now you ne-id a black pen, yeah?" Jordan inquired, the alcohol finally making him drag words.

Beard handed that one too, in a pinch of a second. What a good service.

"Nu-uh. Do it yourself, buddy." The detective sensed the insecurity, and actively retorted at Mark's stare.

"I hate you." Mark wrote in a loose second napkin, free from the other pre-made words.

"Yeah, but you do like her. Priorities, Mark, priorities. Later you can punch me if you wanna."

The former soldier looked at his written notes. Was that enough? A number and some dumb confession? Luckily his lettering stood out to many people since his early ages, and progressed when writing in the worst of places.

"Well, not the best, but coming from you… Eh, the number, don't forget the number." Jordan glanced to his right. "And don't keep her waiting, tiger."

Seconds later, Mark, with anything but a direct line, walked to Alex's table. He didn't misstep, but close alike, bumping into chairs and evading with exaggerated moves.

Still embarrassed, booze made anyone feel tall, good-looking and smart. Even when having only one of the three.

The first black haired girl noticing his curvy trip smirked and pointed at him with her index. Alex faced her back towards him, but a turn gave all the attention he needed.

Having no pain meant a free way for every other feeling to show themselves like a new dress for a girl, waving it around shamelessly. Pretty sure those red cheeks could get confused with a crushing fever, and the pure lips' smile with something sleazy.

Anyways, Mark extended his arm with the napkin note as he got close to her. Having four pairs of eyes over him, not considering the outsiders, made him get this was the only way to ask.

"You need something else?" Ash peered, pushing his seat back, beside his sister.

Alex grabbed the note, and returned to her seat, before finishing her own glass down one solid pour. She didn't answer by the second, so Mark backed up a step, before turning 180.

All written and done, the former soldier strolled back to his stool, again with curved direction instead of a straight line.

"I guess waiting is the most hectic part, aye? Try not making electricity though."

"Is he alright?"

"He's just nervous, Beard. Don't you have this happening to you every week?"

"Sir, this is my first day."

"Oh, cool. Let me tip you, then. This place's lucky for having you, partner."

"Much appreciated."

Dogs had their teeth cleaner than people, yet having a giant blade sharp graze over his forearm still stung. The phone ringed as Mark applied some kind of first aid, with soap and water in the shower.

The first drips of blood swept away that were from himself, and not from white suits. Those shotgun shells did a hell of a job staining every surface to crimson.

Hearing Jordan's voice in the answering machine wrecked his low mental health at the moment. Nothing like committing a hard crime, and having your detective friend call you from the scene.

Jordan wouldn't notice right away, right? Mark didn't have a particular m.o., did he? What he did could be done by anyone with a raccoon mask.

His stinging forearm started going haywire, along with the other washing it. Cold stream of blood rushed down his spine, against the lukewarm shower down his shoulders. As his body heat crumbled to hypothermia, he jumped out from the falling water, and toweled as he reached the drying cloth.

Mark rarely smoked inside, so that ashtray scarcely got used, somehow filling half of its capacity in one go. Nicotine was the only way of getting out. Having killed the fifth cig with regret before entering the bit hot and relieved refreshment, the sixth complied with the job.

The night entered through the window, with no traces of purple now.

Pants on, shoes on, and his wound cool winding, he looked for something to cover it. A bruise would start up questions, and Jordan was particularly good with them.

Bandages would work just fine, as he searched through his drawers, in the two meanings of the word, he found the large collection of colored T-shirts he bought back in the day, most unused just because he was lazy enough to not look for more than two layers of clothes.

A blueish one with pool balls printed stood out, perfectly folded. Throwing it on the table just like every other just to see what was below, Mark found the white wraps he needed, with a letter.

Before his auto-defense mechanism jumped automatically diverting his eyes, he managed to catch its date.

"April 1st, 1986."

He knew the name even without looking at the remittent. Naturally for being the only letter he kept when the other made ashes to a night campfire under the Hawaii moon. No one to bother him in the hospital wing. No one to call brothers in arms again. All of those new people... were strangers.

His scars ached like back then. Stitch, bandage, stitch, morphine. Talking was out of the question with his fellows but the medics, just the necessary speech, hopping to safety as soon as they got the two meters' safe distance.

The impulse of crushing it right between his fingers died as he took another drag of his cigarette. He slid it to another corner of the drawer, starting to put every t-shirt back into place.

Each line detailed her goodbye better than the previous one. The US trying to hide their pending defeat felt like hiding the sun with sore thumb, with Hilo being on the struggle and Honolulu taken over by the reds, driving the army into a corner.

Just having read it once, he remembered her part to France. He just wished to be there in the airport, not stranded by some dirty patriotic bow. Sometimes everyone forgets the losing part of a war.

His mind couldn't focus on a goodbye back. Even sadness was cancelled. The molten breeze of firefights each day, plus what he did…

She never wrote again. Would she still be waiting? Would she be married by now?

Mark slowly bandaged his bruise, caring for not cutting circulation out of pressure. Several rounds later, he fixed it in place with a bland knot, below the top wrap. Grabbing his leather jacket from his closet, without the stained gloves, he went off.

Of course not noticing it was barely 9:30pm, as a big yawn escaped from his lips.

Wingman and scarred lad floated in the bar's vibe. Beard tended other customers, yet attentive of the two, way up their tolerance, the gray suited one on a roll.

At the lowest mention to the younger drunk of coffee, his eyes glinted, but refrained as his mouth opened, no sound coming out.

The waiting game made them both go on a rush of shots, be it two, low on numbers, yet adding those to the bunch… didn't look good in the results.

"Sure those a-ain't open cases, Grace. It's a motherfucking mob behind!"

Mark rested a hand on Jordan's shoulder, and put a finger on his own lips.

"That's right, right. Shhhh..." The detective's muscles stirred. "But you DO know what the hell they're doing, huh?"

The former soldier nodded twice, before tapping his friend's shoulder again.

"Yes, yes! I knew I could trust you, Marky!"

Seconds passed to a heartbeat, making Mark smirk. Somehow boozed up Jordan had such a workaholic attitude, having even asked for Grace thrice.

Sleep lost was starting to give account to the lack of resting hours. Eyelids closing as Mark's mind tried to doze off, his own danger sense relenting to do so.

"Sir, here's a coffee."

The bearded bartender pushed a tiny cup to the former soldier over the bar. Mark opened his eyes wide from the Asian style he sported.

"Don't worry, it's on the house. I thought you could use some, sir."

"Thanks." Low voice, worth the effort, the response reached Beard anyways, before he parted to serve another round to a lone customer.

Looked like Mark was going to be the one to do the hard work tonight. Luckily, Paddie's was two blocks far to Jordan's apartment.

"But YOU know what fucks with my mood the most? Do you? Do you?!"

Mark nodded again, calming Jordan's sudden rapid breaths. Like another shot, the warm coffee entered the vet's body with a definitive pour.

Just at that moment, he sensed some screeching on the wooden floor, from the direction Alex and her friends sat. Going already, or was it getting late?

Of course a puny dose of caffeine wouldn't get him rid of the alcohol, and started vibing with the detective to the new tune on the radio.

"Am I so out of touch?" Jordan cackled to himself as both swayed to the rhythm.

A yellow trail passed behind the gray suited man, stopping on Mark's left, and flicked his shoulder, stinging it a bit. Even to painless human beings.

"Oh." Mark upturned his gaze, right into the green eyes.

"Here." Alex stated, handing him a triangle napkin. "Don't call me too late, or I'll kick your ass."

The former soldier lagged to the vibe, and caught the paper seconds later. She hardened her grip, pulling Mark on the way.

"Warn me next time." Her pupils quickly went to the corner of her eyes. Mark formed a sheepish smile, as he nodded, still swaying like his friend.

"Next… time?"

"See you around." The blonde twin released her written number, before giving another flick, this time to his forehead.

Mark followed her arse shamelessly as she walked off, few seconds before shaking it off, and focusing on her waist, slowly leaning back just to not get Jordan to block his view.

"Congrats." Beard casually stepped in front of the two men.

"Cheers." The detective upped his glass, having just water inside.

A low beep marked 2am. Maybe that was the sign of getting back. Usually by now the stool beside had a person Mark didn't even know, and didn't intend to, followed by a last drink before calmly driving home, as his low drunk level didn't mean harm to anyone, most important to himself.

"The night's just beginning, Mark! Whatcha wanna drink next? Beer, Jack Daniels? Some vodka to savor our Russian saviors?"

Jordan, lively as ever. Remembering the next day was off, why wasn't Mark the same?

"A worse hangover, huh?"

"Why caring now, Marky? You chickening out?"

"Didn't say no, Trace. Bring it on."

"Beard! Two more!"

"Uh…"

Starfish Island. The afternoon reunion with Timur's fellow mobsters and the green suited boss went way better than expected, being appreciated for the first time since his arrival to Miami.

A single handshake and a glass of vodka, then everyone returned to work. Josef bumped fists with Timur, as the former joined the Son to check their new place, after the clean-up jobs.

Vladislav and Aleks kept their focus, having the spotlight for a second, then return to the mansion hold protection. The boss' personal bodyguard often hesitated whom to follow, her sword lingering to follow the younger Lebedev, heavily backing herself as the boss walked away.

In any case, it was at least one good news after having lots of men killed.

"What on earth do you mean we lost contact with one of the Hilo's outposts, captain? Didn't this capitalist scum were throwing their guns away already?"

"General Vanzin, many of our forces moved to Kulani's raid. No one would expect they still had the will to fight at this point…"

"I want spotters and snipers surveying that place. Now. We must push our way to the end, if not, then take even more drastic measures…"

"Copy." The captain moved the chair to face his unit. "Glaz, Komarov, Verenich, you'll be on the move to point I-72. Hear me, do NOT engage. We had at least sixty people over that post."

A red star van trip after, the three entered the jungle, searching for vantage points to the outpost, polluting the moon's light with their shiny white lamps.

The ever light Dragunov, transported by two, with a brand new Avtomat Kalashnikov for the remaining one. Each found their own hill, inconspicuous enough, bush hidden, their dark green uniforms helping with the blend.

"Holy shit."

"What do you see, Verenich?"

Timur adjusted his scope. Many of the windows were splattered in blood. A balcony had body parts scattered like adornments, with no signs of explosives, and one open dorm sported two bodies, both missing heads, having behind a trail of blood that ended on a wall and a bed, respectively.

"Is-is this from some horror movie? I don't…"

The swimming pool was filled with red liquid. Some guts out, others in, three bodies floated, with a bit of parts chopped off. One laid on the edge, headless too, formerly bleeding all the insides content on the once clear water.

"Verenich, report status, goddammit!"

"Sir, it's been a slaughter. Pretty hard to describe, so heavy casualties…"

"Do you see the enemy over there? How many?"

"I-i don't know, sir."

"Didn't you learn how to count, you cunt? Glazkov, report in."

"I see body parts, captain…"

"What the…?"

"Timur!"

The former marksman startled from his seat. Daydreaming on the first night back to the job. Way to go, huh?

"Man, I can't believe you refused your week off, and now you're falling sleep?"

"No, no. I was just… thinking."

"Yeah, I heard that one before. Sinking into slumber you mean, yeah?"

Curving a smile to Vladislav, he straightened on his seat. Soon enough, bad news would spread like spilled milk on the kitchen's floor, as the phone rang.

"It's Josef. It's anyone there at the villa?"

"No, this place is quiet like a mouse's fart. What's going on?"

"Shit. Uh, some shipments got attacked. Fourteen men down on Petrov's word. Call me back if you spot any high up getting there, aye? The boss' isn't answering, for fuck's sake."

"Will do."

The click got followed by a grunt.

"What was that?"

"Another attack, and the boss isn't answering the phone."

"Why so calm about it, then? Some other would be freaking out."

"And not you?"

"Why would I? My life is on the line at every moment standing here, and I've got something to live for."

Karen's innocent laughs swarmed Timur's mind.

"Wearing a white suit isn't the way of living, Vlad."

"It is when you have no other way out."

Both stayed silent for a while. The former marksman turned up the radio, circling the knot until he heard a Russian rhythmical word. Synths accompanied the deep voice, lots of beats livening up the dull atmosphere.

"Zhit' tyazhelo i neuyutno… Zato uyutno umirat…"

"Wanna grab a bite with Karen, tomorrow? It's on me."

"Wouldn't an amusement park be better, Timur?"

"That could work. Finally, I'll get to use my new car then."

"Yeah, yeah, congrats."

Both moved with the synths, as the stars and moon slowly made their traces past the sky.

"Thanks for coming, and take care out there."

"Beard."

Mark recovered a bit of his speech, not knowing if it was for the extra alcohol in the past hour, or if he was already asleep and dreaming about the situation. Jordan had one arm over his shoulder, always on the edge of losing balance.

The night breeze made the closer palm's leaves dance as a greeting to the street. Sensing the cold on his scar, Mark stepped up, following the lampposts to Jordan's apartment.

Empty streets, stray cats and neon flickering served as ambient sounds. Familiar with this route, dragging the detective past the 24/7 store, a pizza parlor and a little sports clothing shop, they arrived, this time saluted by a friendly cricket noise, jumping from a bush to another.

Having the apartment's keys from the bar, Mark opened every door, careful when going upstairs, and double care while helping. After struggling with Jordan's dead weight, even making adrenaline out of fear when in the last step his body gave in to the gravity, finally the detective's apartment was at reach.

His white-tiled kitchen, the first room to see when going in, was impeccable. Perhaps for not using it all, because Mark didn't know a single day his friend ate inside. On the second, his cramped living room, half filled with papers over a desk with files, a swivel chair, and two sofas on the other half, blanket covered each, facing a carpet and furthermore, the TV and VHS.

The decoration didn't seem to vary from abstract paintings, and more papers attached on the walls, over a board. A detective cliché, more or less.

"We're here, Jordan. I'm not undressing you, so suit yourself."

Mark pushed his friend to his room, and then to his bed, leaving him on the spot. After not receiving any living response but a deep snore, the former soldier strained his eyes, resorting to just taking off the detective's shoes, and fleeing the scene.

Nothing Jordan hadn't done for him in the past.

Grabbing the door handle, Mark noticed bandages dangling over it, similar to the ones his friend's wore on his hands. Pretty much like the former, Jordan had his own wounds to cover.

The door closed behind, and way to the sofa, the only awake person in the apartment tripped, landing in the soft. Even with the least comfort on his cheeks, his senses slowly shut down, then a muted snore joined the cricket noise on the lower floor.

Zhit' tyazhelo i neuyutno… Zato uyutno umirat…: Living's hard and shitty, but it is cozy to die.

Molchat Doma – судно / mandu – dragon hood