Disclaimer - The author of this story does not own, nor have they ever owned the rights to this franchise. The characters and settings are used without permission. This story is for entertainment only and will not be used for any monetary gain of any type.
To The Reader – I hope that you're having an amazing day! As always constructive criticism is more than welcome in the form of a review.
With Respect - Alex
Aftermath – A Time Force Story
Chapter 1 – Inspection Day
2011
The glass walls of the Bio-Lab boardroom reflected the sterile glow of the overhead lights. Outside, the city skyline stretched into the early evening, a golden haze settling over the buildings. Inside, the air was thick with the low murmur of executives shuffling their papers and adjusting their ties.
Wes sat at the head of the long conference table, fingers laced together, listening to a financial analyst drone on about quarterly projections. His suit, tailored and pressed, felt heavier than it should, a constant reminder of the man who held the role before him. The title—Interim CEO—was one he hadn't asked for, but one he had taken because he had to. Because there was no one else.
"…expansion into medical research has seen a 12% increase in revenue, though we're still working to mitigate the losses from last year's security breach," the analyst continued.
Wes gave a small nod. "And what about the upgrades to our containment division? Are we still on track?" His voice was even, measured.
A woman across the table, one of the senior research heads, glanced at her tablet. "Yes, but the timeline is tight. We'll need additional funding to accelerate it."
"Approved," Wes said without hesitation. The board members exchanged looks, but no one questioned him. They knew by now that he didn't waste time deliberating over things that needed to be done.
The meeting continued, discussion shifting between development projects and Bio-Lab's growing influence in technology. Wes spoke when necessary, took notes when needed, but his mind drifted—like it always did when he wasn't careful.
A vase of flowers sat in the corner—pink among the white. His chest tightened. For a moment, the room blurred around the edges.
A decade.
That was how long it had been since his life had changed. Since he had stepped onto a battlefield where the rules of time itself had been rewritten. Since he had told himself to let go.
He never spoke her name. Not to Eric. Not to anyone.
But some wounds never closed, no matter how much time passed.
A cough. The scrape of chairs against the floor. "...Mr. Collins?"
Wes blinked, pulling himself back. The meeting had adjourned. Board members were gathering their things, moving toward the exit. He straightened, rubbing the bridge of his nose before rising from his chair.
One of the executives, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, stepped forward. "Wes, a moment?"
Wes turned to him, his expression neutral. "Yeah?"
"I just wanted to ask—how's your father doing?" The man's tone was careful, the kind people used when they weren't sure if sympathy was welcome.
Wes exhaled slowly. He didn't hesitate, but the words felt mechanical. "He's stable. He still keeps the news channel running in his room. Complaining about the anchors like they can hear him, some good days, some bad. The doctors say there's not much else we can do, just... make sure he's comfortable."
The executive gave a slow nod. "I'm sorry to hear that. Your father built this company from the ground up. He's a tough man."
"He is." Wes forced a small smile, one that never quite reached his eyes. "Thanks for asking."
The man patted his shoulder before pausing. "You're doing great work here Wes. The board are behind you all the way." He turned walking off, leaving Wes standing there in the near-empty boardroom.
Through the glass walls, the city below carried on as if time never stopped.
Wes turned away.
And like every other day for the past ten years, he forced himself to move forward.
Wes strode through the sleek corridors of Silver Guardians HQ, nodding absentmindedly at the personnel he passed. The building was a far cry from what it had been a decade ago. What had started as a private security force under Bio-Lab's jurisdiction had evolved into its own entity—fully independent, highly trained, and operating on a scale his father never would have imagined.
It was Eric's doing. Wes had watched him build it from the ground up, shaping the Silver Guardians into something more than just corporate enforcers. They were elite after years of refinement. They were contracted for high-risk security, urban defense, even classified government operations.
The expansion was a success. A legacy in its own right.
But it also meant more responsibility, more oversight. More red tape.
And today was the worst of it. Inspection day.
Wes sighed as he stepped up to Eric's office. Eric's secretary, a sharp-eyed woman in a pressed suit, barely glanced up from her tablet. "He's in the vault."
Of course he was.
Wes pivoted sharply, his footsteps echoing against polished floors as he made for the elevator at the corridor's end. The scanner read his keycard and the reinforced doors slid apart, revealing a chamber bathed in soft, mechanical hums. The air inside felt colder; cleaner.
A second scanner read his palm with a cool, sterile glow.
A mechanical voice, both cold and authoritative sounded.
"Collins, Wesley. Identity confirmed."
The doors sealed with a metallic hiss, and the elevator began its plunge, the descent slow and absolute. The hum of the machinery deepened, swallowing the silence.
The final barrier awaited—an unyielding wall of steel and sensors. This place was a fortress, a secret buried so deep it existed off-the-books. Most Guardians didn't even know it was here.
A flicker of light from the console.
"Voice and retinal authentication required."
Wes drew a breath, as he leaned into the scanner his voice steady, a red beam passed across his eye. Clinical; invasive. "Wesley Collins."
The same mechanical voice sounded. Confirmed.
The console paused—just long enough for the tension to stretch—then:
Final verification confirmed.
A deep, mechanical hiss followed as the chamber decompressed. Plates of solid steel groaned apart, revealing the room beyond.
The room itself was cavernous, yet eerily bare—no racks of weapons, no rows of classified tech. Just one console.
And Eric.
He stood at the terminal, the glow of the screen sharpening the lines of Eric's face. As usual, he was calm, controlled, and unreadable.
"Inspection day." Wes's voice was dry. "Fantastic."
Eric, without looking up: "Quit whining Collins. It's once a year."
Wes stepped beside him, his eyes glazing for a moment. "Once a year too many. Let's get this over with."
Eric's fingers tapped in the security override, and the display shifted. A familiar locked interface appeared with layers of encryption, codes only they had.
Then, the numbers scrolled past. A final command.
And there they were.
Two devices.
Suspended in containment fields.
Untouched for ten years.
The sight hit like a punch. Wes felt his chest tighten; the room seemed quieter. The hum of machinery momentarily fading beneath the whisper of memory.
No one else knew they were here. No one else could.
The red and quantum Time Force morphers.
They were encased in containment fields. Both to ensure they were safe, but also to keep them perfectly preserved.
Wes stared at them, his jaw tightening. No one other than Eric knew about this link to the future. No one else could know.
Like always, his wrist tingled; a phantom pulse of something long buried. But it faded quickly, as it always did.
These weren't weapons. They weren't relics. They were reminders.
Unspoken between them, the same thought lingered in the room.
After all these years, they still had a tether to something they had both buried.
Eric's voice, rougher than before, with a hitch: "Still operational."
It was a statement. And a question.
Wes couldn't help but wonder if it even mattered. They weren't Rangers anymore. Weren't those people anymore.
He forced himself to nod. "Yeah. Good."
And like every year before, they left them untouched.
The silence in the vault was overwhelming—only the soft hiss of air scrubbers and the faint hum of the terminal remained. The weight the endeavor pressing against Wes' shoulders like a familiar burden.
Eric turned to the console, fingers moving over the interface with the ease of routine. A text-only window blinked to life, the connection to the future establishing itself as it had every year before.
- UPLINK ESTABLISHED -
- READY TO TRANSMIT -
Wes stared at the screen; the words as empty as they had always been.
This was what tethered them to Time Force. A single, silent thread reaching across time.
And for what?
A reminder.
That was all this had ever been.
The morphers had been left for them should they ever need them. But they had never needed them. Not once.
Not in ten years.
For two years, they wore them. Wes could still feel the phantom weight of it—the duty, the promise, the reminder it had all happened. All of it, hollow.
Expecting contact. Expecting that someone from the future would reach out, tell them there was unfinished business, that their fight wasn't over.
But no message had ever come.
All they received was this: the same yearly status report confirming that the morphers were still functional.
And after two years of waiting, of hoping, they had accepted that the silence had become its own answer.
A decision was made.
The vault was built. The morphers were placed inside. And then, they were locked away.
That was eight years ago. And still, they had never needed them.
Eric glanced at Wes, waiting for the signal. Wes gave a short nod, the same one he gave every year.
Eric typed the words they had sent for nearly a decade.
"MORPHER CONDITION ACCEPTABLE. NO ISSUES."
The console blinked, transmitting the message through a passage of time neither of them understood.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then, as always, the response appeared.
"MESSAGE RECEIVED AND UNDERSTOOD. NO FURTHER NOTIFICATIONS."
Wes let out a slow breath, staring at the words longer than he should.
Nothing. Again.
As it had been last year. And the year before. And every year since the day they chose to stop waiting.
Eric closed the uplink without a word but Wes could see the small change in his eyes. They turned back to the morphers. The containment field hummed faintly, casting soft light against the cold walls of the vault.
They had belonged to another life. Another time.
And here, in this room, they would remain.
Eric lifted the security lock, and the casing sealed once more.
A tomb.
That's what this place had become.
A tomb for something that no longer had purpose.
Wes clenched his jaw, stepping back as the vault door cycled shut.
Another year. Another reminder. They weren't Rangers. Not really. That was delusion.
And, just like every year before, he would carry the weight of it for weeks.
The reinforced doors hissed shut behind them, sealing the vault once more. The locking mechanisms engaged in a series of heavy metallic clanks, each one finalizing the ritual they had performed for years.
Eric rolled his shoulders and exhaled the tension leaving him. "Well, that's that."
Wes didn't answer. He stood still, staring at the vault door as if the weight of everything inside it might bleed through.
Eric side-eyed him before shaking his head. "You always get like this after inspection day."
Wes dragged a hand down his face and exhaled through his nose. "Because it's hell."
"Yeah, I know." Eric started down the hall, doing his best not to look over at Wes. His footsteps echoing through the quiet underground corridor. "And yet, every year, here we are."
Wes followed, but his steps felt heavier.
This day was never just a task.
It was a reminder; a cruel, deliberate one.
That nothing had changed.
That they had not been forgotten, but deemed unnecessary.
Eric pressed the elevator call button, watching as the doors slid open. He stepped inside first, leaning against the side as Wes followed him in. As the doors shut, Eric spoke again, his voice quieter.
"You still think about it?"
Wes didn't look at him. "Think about what?"
Eric scoffed, shaking his head. "The future. The Rangers. Time Force." He paused letting the words settle before adding, "Her."
Wes' jaw tensed his chest tightening. "I don't."
It was a lie.
And Eric knew it.
He didn't press. He never did. It would cause more damage. He just sighed and looked at the ceiling as the elevator rose toward the surface.
"Yeah," Eric muttered slowly. "Me neither."
The silence between them stretched as the floor numbers ticked upward.
The vault; the morphers, the uplink, the message, it was all behind them now. Locked away for another year.
But Wes felt it like a lead weight was housed in his chest.
Every. Damn. Time.
The elevator stopped. The doors slid open.
Eric stepped out first, rolling his shoulders, shaking off whatever lingering thoughts he had.
"Come on," he said, glancing back at Wes. "I'm going home. You should too."
Wes hesitated.
The thought of going home, sitting alone in the silence of his penthouse, didn't sound appealing. But neither did lingering here.
He finally stepped forward. "Yeah."
They walked down the hall in step, neither of them speaking. They didn't need to.
And behind them, buried beneath layers of security and concrete, the past; the tomb remained untouched.
A grim reminder of the ghosts of the past.
Wes drove down winding path to the estate felt longer than it used to. The house waited in silence. It always did now.
There had been a time when the Collins residence had been a symbol of wealth and power; constant movement, meetings, and formal gatherings that Wes had once wanted nothing to do with. But now, the hallways were still, the energy of the place dulled.
The only movement left came from the medical staff. Nurses and aides who tended to his father, keeping things running as smoothly as they could.
Wes passed them as he made his way to his father's study. It had been converted into a private medical space, outfitted with state-of-the-art care equipment. His father stubborn as ever had refused to move into a hospital room. He wanted to remain in the home he had built, surrounded by the things that made up his life. Not out of arrogance or selfishness, but so he could see his son more.
When Wes stepped inside, his father was awake, sitting upright in bed, a book open in his lap. His hair had turned fully white, his once-imposing figure thinner now, but his eyes were as sharp as ever.
The moment he saw Wes, he smiled.
"Ah, finally decided to stop running a corporation and visit your old man, huh?"
Wes huffed a small laugh doing his best to stay strong. "Something like that."
His father gestured toward the chair beside the bed. "Sit. Before you start pacing."
Wes sat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees the tension of the day easing slightly. It was strange how, even now, his father still carried an air of control. Not in the overbearing way he once had, but in a steady, unwavering presence.
"You look like hell," his father said bluntly. "Long day?"
Wes exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Bio-Lab's a headache, but nothing new."
Mr. Collins studied him for a moment, then let out a knowing hum. "That's not what I asked."
Wes didn't answer.
His father shifted slightly, the small effort requiring more energy than it should have. "I know that look. You get it once a year."
Wes frowned. "What look?"
His father didn't say anything. Instead, he reached toward the side table and turned the small calendar resting there.
Today's date was marked.
Inspection Day.
Wes' stomach tightened. He glanced away, wishing that he wasn't so transparent to his dad if only not to add to his worries. His jaw clenched before he responded. "It's nothing."
Mr. Collins gave a dry chuckle. "You were always a terrible liar, Wesley."
Wes didn't respond.
His father closed the book in his lap and rested his hands over it. "Do you regret it?"
The question caught Wes off guard. He looked at his father and paused the words coming hard. "Regret what?"
"Letting go," his father said simply. But the meaning spanning eternity.
Wes' throat felt tight. "I didn't have a choice."
His father nodded, as if he had expected that answer. "Maybe not then. But you've had ten years since."
Wes inhaled slowly, but the air felt heavy in his chest.
His father sighed. "Look, son. I know what it's like to have things left unsaid. To lose time you can't get back." His gaze, though worn with age, was piercing; knowing. "You think time makes it easier. That if you bury it deep enough, it won't matter anymore."
Wes swallowed. He felt his fathers words hit like a blow.
His father sighed, shaking his head slightly. "You're my son. And if there's one thing I know about you, it's that you don't forget the things that matter."
Wes let out a small breath, looking down at his hands. "It's just another day," he said, even though it felt like a lie.
His father didn't argue. He just nodded, watching him closely.
"Sure, Wes." He tapped the calendar lightly. "Just another day."
Wes sat in silence, his father's words settling heavily over him like an unwanted weight.
He had told himself for years that it didn't matter. That time had moved on and so had he.
But his father knew the date's importance to his son without being reminded.
He always remembered those things.
Mr. Collins let out a slow breath, adjusting himself slightly in the bed. The movement was small, but Wes caught the wince in his father's expression, the way he had to suppress discomfort even for something so minor. It was internally mirrored by Wes making his stomach tighten.
"You need anything?" Wes asked, shifting the subject away from the date.
His father smirked. "What, suddenly feeling helpful?"
Wes rolled his eyes. "I mean it."
His father waved him off. "I have people to take care of all that. You don't have to hover."
"I'm not hovering," Wes muttered, leaning back in his chair. "I just... want to make sure you're okay."
Mr. Collins exhaled, his gaze softening slightly. "I know." He hesitated, then added, "I appreciate it."
Wes looked at him then; really looked.
The man before him wasn't the same one he had clashed with all those years ago. The stubborn businessman who had once been so driven by wealth and control had changed.
Time had done that. The thought of it once seemed like a miracle, but now reminded him of the uncaring truth.
Time changed everything.
His father studied him for a moment longer before speaking again. "You're struggling with this, aren't you?"
Wes frowned wishing he could be honest. "With what?"
His father smirked knowingly. "With watching me fade."
Wes inhaled sharply, looking away. "You're not…"
"Spare me," his father interrupted. "I know my own body. And I know my own son."
Wes clenched his jaw another blow of truth. "I don't want to talk about this."
"Tough," his father said, leaning forward slightly. "Because I do."
Wes stayed quiet.
Mr. Collins sighed, his voice calmer when he spoke again. "I know you, Wes. You take responsibility for everything. The things that aren't even yours to carry. You think you're supposed to fix things. To protect people."
His father met his eyes. "But this... my time running out... it's not something you can stop."
Wes swallowed hard, looking down.
Because that was the part that ate at him the most.
He had spent his life fighting battles. Against the man laying in the bed, and then for the father before him. The battles hadn't stopped there. Wes had risked everything to change the future for something he truly believed in.
But he couldn't change this.
His father's voice softened. "I don't want you spending the rest of your life holding onto something you can't fix."
Wes exhaled. "I'm not."
His father gave him a pointed look. "Aren't you?"
Wes stayed silent.
Mr. Collins leaned back against his pillows, watching him for a long moment before shifting his gaze toward the calendar again.
Inspection Day.
A reminder of a different better off forgotten past Wes still carried.
His father let out a quiet chuckle. "You know... it's funny."
Wes glanced at him. "What is?"
His father tapped the calendar. "You used to hate everything about Bio-Lab. You wanted nothing to do with the company, with any of this."
Wes exhaled through his nose. "Yeah, well... things change."
His father smirked slightly. "Do they?"
Wes frowned at him.
His father's voice was calm, steady. "You think you've moved on. You think you've let things go." His gaze was sharp again. "But you still walk the same path I did. You took on responsibility you never wanted. You wear a suit you swore you'd never put on."
Wes clenched his jaw. "I made a choice; one I would make again."
His father nodded. "Yeah. You did." His voice lowered. "But was it the right one?"
Wes felt something cold settle in his chest.
Because, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure.
His father's voice softened. "You're a good man, Wes. You always have been. But don't let responsibility blind you to the things that really matter."
Wes swallowed, his throat tight.
His father sighed. "I can see it on you, son. The weight you carry."
The admission felt raw, like tearing something open.
Wes exhaled, the truth adding to that weight. "I don't know how to put it down."
His father looked at him, gaze steady. "Maybe it's time you tried."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Wes let out a breath, forcing a small smile he didn't want his dad to dwell on this. "You've gotten sentimental in your old age."
His father chuckled. "Maybe. Or maybe I just don't want my son making the same mistakes I did."
Wes didn't have an answer for that.
The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but heavy.
After a moment, Mr. Collins reached over and patted his arm. "Go home, Wes. Get some rest."
Wes hesitated.
Then, finally, he nodded.
He stood, squeezing his father's shoulder briefly before stepping toward the door.
As he reached for the handle, his father's voice stopped him.
"Wes."
He turned.
His father's gaze was calm, but knowing. "You're still waiting for something, aren't you?"
Wes didn't answer.
Because like every year on this date, he didn't dare ask himself if it was true.
The night had fully settled over Silver Hills. The warm glow of streetlights casting long shadows against the pavement. The air was crisp, carrying the last traces of late summer warmth, and above him, the stars stretched endlessly across the darkened sky. Wes pulled his car to a stop along the quiet street, the engine idling for a moment before he turned it off.
But Wes wasn't looking at the sky.
His eyes were locked on the clock tower. But even now not seeing it, he saw the ghosts.
It stood exactly as it had before. Before the battle. Before the destruction. Before they… left.
After the Rangers had gone, after the dust had settled and the city had been rebuilt, he had made sure this place came back too.
Not out of necessity. Not because anyone else cared.
But because he couldn't let it be gone.
So he had rebuilt it. Every detail. Every brick. The original blueprints had guided the restoration, ensuring that nothing had changed. To the rest of the world, it was just an old structure, another piece of history standing against time.
But to him, it was more than that.
It was theirs.
He stepped out of his car, his unsteady footsteps quiet as he made his way inside.
The wooden steps creaked under his weight. Familiar. Unchanged. Time had touched everything else—but not this place. The sounds stirring something deep inside him.
Memories pressed against his mind. Laughter. Voices. Her voice.
But he didn't stop.
He reached the top, pushing open the heavy door that led to the upper room.
The moment he stepped inside, the past came rushing back.
The space was nearly unchanged. The same beams, the same rafters, the same dim lighting that flickered slightly with age. The air smelled of old wood and dust, but beneath it, there was something else; the specter of something lost.
He crossed the room, stepping toward the far wall where a small, discreet safe was hidden behind a panel. He pressed his palm against the lock, entering the code from memory. A quiet beep confirmed its release, and the door swung open with a soft metallic click.
Inside, the items were exactly as they had always been.
A bottle of whiskey. Needed for this day.
A photograph.
His hands brushed it slowly; carefully, his fingers tracing the edges. It was the five of them. His gaze passed slowly to each of them. Lucas, Trip, Katie, him, and her.
Jen.
They looked so young.
So damn young.
His gaze lingered on Jen's face for a moment longer than the others, but he pushed the thought away. He couldn't go there tonight.
He set the photo down on the table.
A slow exhale left him as he picked up the bottle, and uncorked it, pouring himself a glass. He wasn't much of a drinker, not really. But this?
This was tradition.
One no one knew about. Not even Eric.
This moment was his and his alone.
He knew despite everything he told himself for weeks before coming here, that this night would be like the others each year before.
Like a prisoner, he reached back into the safe not even looking at it as he did so.
His fingers felt the metal, and like a siren, it called to him.
His fingers curled around the last item in the safe—a small, worn badge.
Jen's.
The one she had left behind before she walked away for the last time.
He held it between his fingers, feeling the cool metal against his palm.
Then, carefully, he set it down beside the photo.
Wes sank into the old chair by the window, glass in hand, staring at the past laid out before him.
And for the first time in a year, he gave himself permission to remember.
Because even if he didn't.
The memories came regardless like waves on a beach.
Wes took a slow sip from the glass, the whiskey burning its familiar path down his throat. He wasn't sure when this tradition had started; whether it had been the first year after the Rangers left or later, when the weight of everything became too much to ignore.
All he knew was that he came here every year.
That he had to.
The whiskey, the photo, the badge—they were the only things that remained. The last remnants of a life that had slipped through his fingers. It felt so much like a dream, that the only reason he believed it at all was because Eric occasionally slipped and said something about the rangers to him.
He stared at the picture, at the faces frozen in time.
Lucas, confident and composed shaken by nothing.
Trip, smiling like he always had; open, full of curiosity and wonder.
Katie, strong, with warmth behind her eyes there for all of them.
Jen, normally stoic and laser focused. But not in this photo. Here, she was smiling.
It was so damn rare to see her smile like that.
He ran his thumb along the glass of the frame, his chest tightening in a way that had never truly gone away.
It had been ten years.
Ten years since they left.
Ten years since he watched her step onto that ship.
Ten years since he told himself that he had to move forward.
And yet, here he was.
Sitting in the same place. Looking at the same photo. Holding onto the same badge.
More of a ghost than part of the living. His dad was right, he was still waiting for something.
He set the glass down with a quiet clink, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
He didn't say anything.
He had said it all before.
The memories spoke for themselves.
The late nights at the tower, laughing over old movies.
The battles that pushed them to their limits.
The impossible, inescapable pull between him and Jen, a connection neither of them had ever been able to deny.
He looked over to the balcony, and his heart stuttered in his chest.
He thought of her every day.
He never said it out loud. Never admitted it, because that would be against his own rules.
But he did.
And it never got easier. If anything it got heavier.
His fingers brushed against the badge on the table. The words coming back.
Wes barely holding himself together looked at the person who became so much to him.
"I wish you could stay," he'd said, voice barely holding.
She'd nodded, but her eyes—God, her eyes. "Me too." A pause. "But we both know I can't."
She handed the badge to him then. "I want you to have this Wes. Don't ever forget me."
Just like he said then, the truth echoed in his mind. "Never could."
The badge had been hers. A part of her world, her duty, the life she had returned to over him.
And still, she had left it behind.
Why?
Had it been a mistake? A last-minute oversight? Or had it been intentional—something she had left for him because she hadn't wanted to go?
Wes let out a slow breath, rubbing his hands together. The emotions rolled over him.
"Ten years," he murmured.
The room was silent.
Outside, Silver Hills stretched beneath the night sky, the city alive with lights and movement.
But here, in this room, time stood still.
Like it always did.
Like it always would.
He reached for the glass again, taking another sip, letting the warmth settle deep in his chest.
Tomorrow, he'd go back to work.
Tomorrow, he'd bury it all again.
Tomorrow, he'd keep moving forward.
But tonight...
Tonight, he let himself remember.
Like he did every year.
The whiskey sat warm in his chest, but it did nothing to dull the ache. If anything, it made the memories sharper. More real.
Wes leaned back in the chair, tilting his head against the old wooden frame, eyes drifting shut.
He wasn't tired. Not really.
But the weight of the day. The weight of years. They had settled deep in his bones.
He could still hear their voices in this place.
Katie's laughter, loud and unrestrained.
Trip's endless curiosity, the way he'd ramble about some piece of future tech.
Lucas, always calm, always steady.
Jen's voice—sharp when it needed to be, soft when she let it be.
God, her voice.
He had spent years trying to forget the sound of it, only to realize he never would.
Wes opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. The old beams stretched above him, worn but strong. Just like the ones he had rebuilt, piece by piece, after Ransik's final attack had torn this place apart.
It had been destroyed. Just like everything else.
And yet, he had brought it back.
Because he had needed to.
Because some things weren't meant to be erased.
He glanced at the table again, at the objects that never moved, never changed.
The photo. The badge.
A past that wouldn't stay buried no matter how hard he tried.
Wes exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "What the hell am I doing?"
The words were barely above a whisper, but they echoed in the silence.
This wasn't moving on.
It never had been.
He drained the rest of his glass and set it down harder than he meant to, the sound breaking through the quiet. His fingers curled into fists, resting against his knees.
What if she had stayed?
What if he had fought harder?
What if they had found another way?
A thousand questions. A thousand regrets.
And no answers.
Wes let out a slow breath, forcing himself to stand. He capped the whiskey, placing it back in the safe. The photo followed, carefully set in its usual place.
Finally, his gaze fell to the badge.
For a long moment, he just looked at it. So much of the life that could have been flashed before him.
Then, instead of putting it away, he slipped it into his pocket.
He didn't know why.
Maybe he was tired of locking it away.
Maybe, after ten years, he was ready to carry it again.
The safe clicked shut. The hidden panel slid back into place.
As if none of it had ever been there.
But Wes knew better.
He always had.
With one last look around the tower, he stepped toward the door. The night outside was still waiting, the city humming below.
He pulled the badge from his pocket, rubbing his thumb over the engraved emblem.
For the first time in years, he let himself wonder.
Did she still think about him?
Had it ever gotten easier for her?
Somehow, he doubted it.
Wes took a deep breath, slipping the badge back into his pocket.
Then, without another word, he stepped out into the night.