Hannibal stepped into the Army hospital at Fort Tucker. The building was the Army's idea of modern but lacked the advanced technology of a civilian facility. It was filled with military personnel moving through their daily routines. He knew it well. He'd been patched up in places like this more times than he cared to count.

But this time was different. This wasn't about recovering from an injury in order to get back into the fight. It was about proving that he was still fit to serve at all. The stakes had never been higher.

Dressed in civilian clothes, his best pair of starched blue jeans, a crisp button-up shirt, and his sneakers, Hannibal carried himself with confidence, his stride even and his posture straight. He left the cane at home to maintain he no longer needed it. In truth, he did when his ankle ached when he overworked it. He masked any sign of discomfort. Every movement was deliberate and controlled. He knew damn well that the doctors wouldn't only be evaluating his medical reports. They'd be watching him. Every reaction, every hesitation, every glance would be another mark, good or bad, in their assessment.

At the check-in desk, a young specialist took his ID and medical files before leading him to an exam room. "Have a seat, sir. The doctors will be with you shortly."

Hannibal nodded, sitting on the padded examination table, swinging his legs back and forth. The walls were covered with anatomical charts—musculoskeletal diagrams, the nervous system, and detailed images of the brain. He eyed the words printed at the bottom of the last one.

Brain injury recovery time varies by patient, neuroplasticity

compensates over time but does not always fully restore function.

Hell of a thing to be reading before getting picked apart by doctors.

The door opened, and a lean, gray-haired lieutenant colonel in a lab coat stepped in. A stethoscope was draped around his neck. His name tag read LTC Eric Whitmore – Neurology. Behind him, a second doctor entered—MAJ Daniel Reynolds – Orthopedic Surgery.

Before they started, a medic entered the room, rolling in a cart containing vials, syringes, and a blood pressure cuff.

"We need to get a baseline on you, Colonel Smith," the medic said professionally. "Standard pre-exam protocol."

Hannibal held out his arm as the medic wrapped a tourniquet around his bicep. The needle slid in with only a tiny prick. This guy was good. All the nurses during his original stay missed the vein half the time, nearly bleeding him dry by the time they managed to stick him correctly.

He watched as the deep red blood filled multiple vials. The medic labeled them before removing the needle and pressing a gauze pad against the puncture site, securing it tightly with tape bandage wrap.

"You can take that off in about fifteen minutes, sir."

Hannibal laughed. "Good, because I'm losing circulation in his fingers."

Next came his blood pressure. The cuff squeezed uncomfortably tight before slowly deflating. The medic checked the reading, frowning slightly.

"136 over 82," he noted. "A little high, but that could be from stress."

Hannibal shook his head. The reason was obvious to him. "I wonder why."

The medic chuckled. "You'd be surprised how many guys skyrocket in here from nerves and the blood draw. Nothing to worry about, sir. That is always taken into consideration."

Next, he was escorted down the hall for a CT scan and MRI. The radiology tech guided him onto the table, securing his head in place.

"Alright, Colonel, hold still. This will take about fifteen minutes."

The machine whirred to life, the soft hum filling the enclosed space. Hannibal forced himself to relax, staring up at the dull gray tube. He'd been through this process many times before, but something about lying still while a machine scanned his brain always made him uneasy. And he wondered what it would find. Would this one test be his downfall?

Next came the MRI of his ankle. His leg was secured in place, the cold vinal padding pressing against his skin.

"This one's going to be loud," the technician warned, placing earmuffs over Hannibal's ears. The rhythmic thudding and clicking filled his skull, pulsing through his bones.

After what felt like an eternity, the scans were complete. Hannibal was led back to the exam room, where Whitmore and Reynolds waited with his nearly three-inch thick medical file open on a rolling stainless-steel table.

"Colonel Smith." Whitmore shook Hannibal's hand with a firm grip, clearly expecting one in return as part of the assessment. Hannibal responded in kind.

"I'll be conducting your neurological evaluation. Major Reynolds will handle your orthopedic assessment," Lt. Colonel Whitmore said, releasing Hannibal's hand.

Hannibal nodded. "Let's get to it, gentlemen."

Whitmore pulled up a rolling stool and flipped a page in Hannibal's file. "First things first, Colonel Smith, I've gone through your complete medical history, including the reports from Dr. Cooper, Dr. Lane, Dr. Zale, and your physical therapist, Mark Andrews. You've come a long way. But the question isn't whether you've improved. That's obvious even to an untrained eye. The question is whether you can handle the demands of limited duty without putting yourself or others at risk."

"I understand."

"Good. Let's start with your neurological assessment." Whitmore ran him through a series of cognitive and reflex tests, each designed to gauge his brain's ability to process information, react to stimuli, and coordinate movement.

These were more pleasant than the ones given to him by Dr. Tipler ten months ago. Now, he wasn't confused with a headache the size of Texas and drains stuck through little holes into his skull.

"Follow my finger," Whitmore instructed, moving a penlight side to side. Hannibal's eyes tracked smoothly. "Good. Now close your eyes and touch your nose." Hannibal complied with precision. "Stand up, feet together, arms at your sides."

Hannibal did as he was told.

"Close your eyes and hold that position. This is called the Romberg test. It's designed to assess your balance and proprioception."

"I know. Done it several times." Hannibal fought the urge to laugh at the irony. He remained steady, unlike the previous two times with Dr. Copper three months ago. He was aware of Whitmore watching for even the slightest sway or bobble in his balance.

"Now," Whitmore continued, "I'm going to test rapid alternating movements. Tap your thumb to each finger on your right hand, then do the same on your left."

Hannibal moved through the sequence, his fingers steady and nimble. The tremors that once plagued him were barely noticeable now.

Whitmore leaned back, tapping his pen on the file. "Your coordination is good. Now, let's discuss the seizures."

Hannibal tensed slightly. He expected this.

"You haven't had an episode in over four months," Whitmore noted. "However, medical records indicate that high-stress situations are a known trigger. That's a concern for everyone involved in your care."

"I'm managing my stress," Hannibal replied smoothly. "My medication is stable, my sleep is regular, and I've identified my triggers, one being Colonel Decker, and he's out of my life."

Whitmore arched an eyebrow. "And if another situation arose that pushed you to the same stress level?"

"I'd handle it," Hannibal said evenly.

Whitmore studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Alright. I'm signing off on your neurological clearance, pending final approval from my superiors. Major Reynolds, he's yours."

Major Reynolds stepped forward, sitting on the rolling stool and flipping to another page in the file. "I want to take a look at that ankle, Colonel Smith."

Hannibal rolled up the cuff of his jeans, exposing the surgical scars where the bone spur was removed. Reynolds inspected it closely, pressing his fingers along the joint, tracing the outline of the scar pattern.

"Pain level from zero to ten," Reynolds asked.

"Zero. A dull ache sometimes when it's cold," Hannibal admitted. "Nothing that affects my mobility."

Reynolds pointed at the treadmill in the room. "Let's see."

Hannibal stepped onto the belt. He started at a walk, increased to a jog, then ran full speed around an eight to nine-minute mile. Reynolds watched intently, noting his stride and any compensatory movements.

"I've seen enough. You can get off," Major Reynolds ordered, making notes on his clipboard.

Hannibal turned off the treadmill, jogging, then walking as the belt slowed and stopped.

"Alright, Colonel Smith. Drop down and give me twenty."

Hannibal shook his head at the order from the major but complied, knocking out twenty standard Army push-ups then shifting into a plank without being instructed to do so.

Reynolds nodded. "Strength and endurance are excellent. Any issues with impact?"

"No."

Reynolds jotted something on his clipboard. "Alright, last thing, range of motion." He motioned for Hannibal to step into the open floor space of the exam room. The polished linoleum was a bit slick as he adjusted his stance, prepared for whatever came next.

"Alright, let's start with a simple squat," Reynolds instructed, watching him closely.

Hannibal lowered himself into a deep squat, keeping his back straight and his knees aligned with his shoulders. His thighs burned as he held the position for a few seconds before rising back up.

Reynolds nodded. "Good depth, no compensating on the right leg. Again."

Hannibal repeated the movement, this time with more control. The ache in his left ankle was mild, barely a whisper compared to the months of pain he'd endured. He exhaled through his nose, his muscles tightening as he powered back up to standing.

Reynolds crouched with eyes level with Hannibal's thighs, observing every motion. "No hesitation, no noticeable weakness. Now lunges. Step forward, right leg first."

Hannibal stepped forward, bending his right knee until his thigh was parallel to the ground. He held the position, then pushed back to standing.

"Left side."

The left leg was trickier. The repaired ankle protested as he lowered himself down, but he kept his balance. Steady. Controlled. The last thing he needed was to show even the slightest hesitation. He rose to his full height, planting his feet firmly beneath him.

Reynolds scratched something onto his clipboard. "Now lateral lunges. Let's check stability."

Shifting his weight to the right, Hannibal extended his left leg straight while bending his right knee. He felt the stretch along his inner thigh, his core muscles engaging to maintain control. Another beat, then he pushed back up and repeated on the opposite side.

"Balance is good," Reynolds observed. "Let's see how that ankle holds up under dynamic stress. I want you to do ten jump squats."

Hannibal nearly laughed. Jump squats? Now we're just showing off.

He set his feet and bent his knees before exploding upward, his boots leaving the ground. The controlled impact as he landed sent a brief vibration up his ankle, but it held firm. He moved into the next repetition, powering through each jump, keeping his breathing steady and measured.

By the tenth rep, a sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead, but his movements remained strong.

Reynolds snapped the file shut. "I don't see anything that would prevent you from passing the physical assessment board. Your strength, endurance, and balance are within acceptable parameters. From an orthopedic standpoint, you're good to go."

Hannibal exhaled, rolling his shoulders and neck. "Thanks, Doc."

Reynolds shook his head. "Hell, Colonel, you're in better shape than half the guys ten years your junior."

Hannibal shrugged. "What can I say? Old habits die hard."

"Don't push too hard before the assessment," Reynolds warned. "Your body's healed, but that ankle's still got miles on it."

"I'll keep that in mind," Hannibal assured him, though they both knew he wouldn't take it easy. Not when he was this close to accomplishing his goal.

Reynolds extended a hand, and Hannibal clasped it firmly. "Good luck, Colonel."

Hannibal nodded. "Thank you." One step closer.

###

The hospital administrative wing was a stark contrast to the clinical atmosphere of the exam room. The hallways were quieter and smelled of copy paper and freshly brewed coffee. Plaques lined the walls—portraits of past hospital commanders, framed commendations, and the Army Medical Department coat of arms, twenty white stars on blue, red, and white stripes, and a green staff entwined with a green serpent. Printed under it: To Conserve Fighting Strength. Those words were never truer.

Hannibal was nervous—at least, not outwardly—but this was the last hurdle before facing the Physical Review Board.

A specialist in a class B dress uniform sat behind a large wooden desk near the entrance, barely glancing up as Hannibal approached. "Colonel Smith?"

"Yes," Hannibal replied, handing over his new military ID card.

The young soldier took it, glanced at the name, then handed it back. "You're to report to Colonel Warren's office. It's the last door on the left."

Hannibal tipped his head in acknowledgment and made his way to the office. He knocked on the door before stepping inside.

The office was formal but functional. It was a no-nonsense space filled with filing cabinets, an oak desk, and a row of chairs for review board meetings. A West Point diploma hung beside a framed portrait of General Eisenhower. On the wall behind the desk, a West Point sword was displayed in a wooden shadow box, complete with a white cross belt, red sash, and scabbard.

Colonel Henry Warren sat behind the desk with a thick file open in front of him. He was in his early fifties, with graying hair, a square jaw, and the eyes of a man who had seen a lifetime of soldiers sitting across from him.

Warren pointed at the chair opposite his desk. "Have a seat, Colonel."

Hannibal sat down, placing his hands on the armrests. He was aware that every movement and reaction was being scrutinized.

Warren flipped through the pages in the file, scanning Hannibal's medical history, rehab reports, and psychological assessments. He tapped his pen on a page before looking up. "You've had quite a year, Colonel Smith."

Hannibal nodded. "That's an understatement."

Warren raised an eyebrow. "A traumatic brain injury, multiple seizures, orthopedic surgery, and nearly a year of rehabilitation. And now, instead of taking your well-earned retirement, you're asking to return to duty in a limited capacity."

"Yes, sir," Hannibal replied.

"I have one last question before I sign off on your clearance."

"Sure. Ask away."

"Why?"

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "Why what?"

"Why are you doing this? You could walk away right now and retire with full honors as a Medal of Honor recipient. No one would fault you for it. You've given more than enough to your country." He leaned forward in his chair. "Why are you fighting so hard to stay in the Army?"

Hannibal didn't answer immediately, thinking about his answer. It wasn't an easy question to sum up in a few words. He could have given the standard answer—duty, responsibility, unfinished business—but none of those captured his feelings. Finally, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk with his hands intertwined. "Because this is who I am. I didn't spend a lifetime learning how to lead men on the battlefield to walk away when I can still serve in some capacity. I have knowledge and experience to pass on to the next generation. That's worth something. I can't sit back and watch. Not when there's more work to do."

Warren studied him for a long moment with his fingers steepled under his chin. "Your medical evaluations are promising. Your strength and endurance are within acceptable parameters. But physical recovery is only half the equation. I need to assess your mental resilience."

Hannibal leaned forward, meeting Warren's gaze. "Ask your questions."

Warren rested his hands on top of the open folder. "Your neurological assessments indicate that while the seizures have reduced in frequency, they are still a potential factor under extreme stress. If you're placed in a high-pressure environment, say, instructing cadets during live field exercises, what assurances do I have that you won't seize up mid-lesson?"

Hannibal took a deep breath. That question was picked purposely to induce a level of stress. "I know my limits. I will push beyond them. If I feel something coming on, I'll take the necessary precautions. And I'll have medical oversight at West Point. There's a hospital on post."

Warren nodded, flipping another page in the file. "Dr. Cooper and Dr. Zale both support your return. They say you've made significant neurological progress. But let's talk about the psychological aspect."

Hannibal remained silent, letting Warren continue.

"You were a prisoner of war, Colonel Smith. You were tortured, starved, and left for dead more times than we probably know about. You've spent years on the run, hounded by the same Army you served with distinction. That's enough to break lesser men."

Hannibal nodded. "True. But I'm still here."

"Yes," Warren agreed. "But I need to hear from you. How have you managed? Have you experienced flashbacks? Nightmares? Episodes of…detachment?"

Hannibal exhaled through his nose. "A few. No soldier goes through war and comes out untouched. I don't let it control me. I have my fiancé, my team, and my friends who keep me grounded."

Warren nodded slowly, making a note in the file. "Have you ever had thoughts of self-harm or suicidal ideation?"

Hannibal shook his head. "No." Stupid question.

Warren held his eyes for a moment, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. He leaned back in his chair and closed the file. "Colonel Smith, your full medical clearance is contingent on our belief that you are fit for duty, physically and mentally. Everything here suggests you are. But my recommendation alone isn't enough. You need to pass the Physical Review Board to obtain your final clearance."

Hannibal gave him a curt nod. "Understood."

Warren studied him silently. Then, a slow smile spread across his face. "That's what I needed to hear."

Without breaking eye contact, Warren pulled the clearance form from the folder and signed his name with a flourish. The sound of the pen scratching against paper was the final confirmation that months of grueling rehabilitation exercises had been worth it.

He slid the signed document across the desk. "Congratulations, Colonel Smith. You're officially cleared for assessment by the Physical Review Board."

Hannibal picked up the paper, running his fingers over the signature at the bottom. It was real. He nodded. "Appreciate it, Colonel."

Warren extended his hand, and Hannibal clasped it firmly. "Good luck. I have no doubt you'll pass. Not many men make it back from what you've been through."

Hannibal smiled. "Never been much for failure. I don't intend to waste the opportunity."

With the signed clearance papers in hand, Hannibal left the office, the weight of the past months pressing against him differently. He'd passed every test, every evaluation, but now he had to wait.

The processing office was a slow-moving beast. He stepped up to the counter and handed the documents to the clerk, a young specialist who took them with an indifferent nod. The man flipped through the paperwork, scanned the official signatures, and finally reached for a rubber stamp.

THUMP. The stamp came down hard, leaving behind an inked seal of Army approval.

"You'll receive official authorization for your assessment within forty-eight hours," the specialist said without looking up. "You'll be contacted with details on location and reporting time."

Two more days.

Hannibal exhaled slowly, pocketing his copy of the clearance form. As he stepped outside, the late afternoon sun stood above the horizon. He paused, taking in the soldiers going about their duties—recruits marching in formation on the parade ground, hounded by a drill sergeant, officers heading to meetings, enlisted men moving between buildings.

He was one of them. Still one of them.

It wasn't over yet, but it was close.

One step at a time.