Slowly—agonizingly slow—he turned his head and there he is.
Mateo.
His hair is shorter, his stance straighter, but Leo knows him instantly. The young man stands just inside the gate, flanked by others in uniform, but his eyes are fixed solely on Leo. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. He just stares—jaw clenched, fists tight by his side—like the mere sight of Leo has stirred something dangerous from beneath calm waters.
Leo’s breath hitches. For a long moment, neither of them moves. The ache in his chest claws deeper. That boy—no, that man—was once under his command. He remembers Mateo’s voice crackling over comms during blackouts, remembers the way he used to grip his rifle like it was the only thing holding him together. He remembers that final mission—the screams, the fire, the explosion that swallowed their team whole—and how only Leo made it out alive.
And then he remembers the tribunal. The accusations. The silence that followed.
Mateo steps forward.
Leo’s instinct tells him to run. Disappear again. But it’s too late for that. He stands frozen, as if bound by the weight of his own past. Mateo crosses the street with slow, measured steps, his uniform immaculate, ribbons sharp against his chest. He stops just inches away, eyes scanning Leo’s sunken face.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Mateo says quietly.
Leo tries to speak, but the words don’t come. His throat feels like sandpaper.
“You left us,” Mateo continues, his voice trembling now, no longer calm. “You left me. You ran while we were still burning.”
“I didn’t—” Leo finally manages, but the rest sticks in his throat. What is he supposed to say? That he was broken? That guilt hollowed him out until there was nothing left but the shell Mateo sees now?
Mateo’s fists unclench slowly. “They gave me your name last month. Said your pension was still collecting dust. That they assumed you were KIA. I went looking. And then I saw this.” He reaches into his coat and pulls out a wrinkled copy of the same newspaper Leo carries. “They finally printed the correction. Said Captain Vance was dishonorably discharged. Desertion. Cover-up.”
Leo lowers his eyes. The word dishonorably stings more than any wound he ever took in combat.
“I read it a dozen times,” Mateo says. “Tried to hate you. Thought I could. But I couldn’t stop wondering why. Why did you leave us? Why didn’t you come back?”
Leo meets his gaze, and the storm in his eyes is barely held in check.
“I tried,” he whispers. “I tried to get them out. All of them. The route changed last minute. Intel was bad. The evac was gone. I stayed behind until the last second… and when I woke up, everyone was gone. They told me I was the only one left.”
Mateo doesn’t speak.
“I was in a hospital in Berlin for three months,” Leo goes on. “They told me the investigation would clear me. That it was standard. But it wasn’t. Someone needed a scapegoat. And they had my name on file.”
Mateo’s jaw works like he’s chewing on something bitter.
“I fought it,” Leo says. “Until I couldn’t anymore. I lost everything. I didn’t even know you were still alive.”
“I shouldn’t be,” Mateo mutters. “None of us should.”
Silence stretches between them again. The wind pushes against Leo’s back like it wants to shove him forward. Into justice. Into judgment. Into reckoning.
“I thought you were dead, too,” Leo says, softer now. “I mourned you. Every day.”
Mateo breathes in sharply. His eyes flicker, glassy now, but he looks away before anything falls.
“Corporal Manning made it out, too,” he says after a long moment. “Lost a leg. He’s back in Georgia, running a garage. Parker’s gone. So is Lim. And Taylor. But Manning—he still talks about you. Still curses your name.”
Leo’s eyes shut tight. The names hit like rounds to the chest. He opens them again only when Mateo sighs.
“So why show up now? After all this time?”
Leo reaches into his coat and pulls out the folded newspaper. The edges are frayed. The ink has bled into the fabric. He hands it to Mateo.
“I saw your name. Medal of Honor. Ceremony next week.”
Mateo takes the paper slowly, eyes flicking over the headline. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know,” Leo replies. “But you deserve it.”
Mateo watches him. His expression shifts—less fury, more confusion. “Then why come here? To absolve yourself?”
“No,” Leo says. “I don’t expect that. I came because I needed to see for myself. That at least one of you… made it out okay.”
Mateo stares at him. His mouth opens, then closes again. Finally, he shakes his head. “I don’t know if I did. I’ve spent four years training myself not to feel anything.”
Leo nods. “Same.”
They stand in the shadow of the gate, two ghosts of the same war, each haunted by a different battlefield. Then, slowly, Mateo glances back at the base, then to Leo again.
“Come with me,” he says.
Leo stiffens. “To the base?”
Mateo nods. “There’s a debrief room. No one will bother us. You look like you could use a chair. Maybe some food.”
Leo hesitates. “I can’t go back in there.”
“You’re not going in as Reaper. You’re coming in as a man who’s finally stopped running.”
The words settle like stones in Leo’s chest. Heavy. Unmovable. True.
He swallows. Nods once.
Inside the base, Mateo leads him past curious stares and hushed whispers. No one says anything aloud, but Leo knows what they’re thinking. He feels the weight of every glance, every uniformed shadow brushing past him. But for the first time, he doesn’t lower his gaze.
The debrief room is small, windowless. The walls are lined with filing cabinets and fading maps. A single pot of coffee gurgles in the corner. Mateo locks the door behind them and sits.
Leo remains standing for a moment before finally sinking into the opposite chair.
They sit in silence. The hum of the air vent fills the space between their breathing.
Then Mateo speaks again, voice quieter now.
“After the explosion… I thought it was my fault. I gave the all-clear. I missed the tripwire.”
Leo leans forward. “No. You didn’t miss it. It was buried under a heat shield. No one would’ve seen it. Not even me.”
Mateo looks at him, and something like relief washes over his face. “I’ve lived with that guilt every day.”
Leo nods. “So have I.”
The clock ticks.
“I keep hearing Parker scream,” Mateo admits. “When I sleep. When I don’t. It never leaves.”
Leo swallows hard. “Neither does Lim’s voice. Or the way Manning looked at me when they dragged me out of the rubble.”
Mateo leans back. The medal on his chest catches the fluorescent light and throws a faint glint across the table.
“I didn’t want this medal,” he says. “It feels like blood money. A shiny reminder of everything we lost.”
Leo looks at it, then at him. “Then let it mean something else. Let it be proof that even when everything burned… you stood back up.”
Mateo looks down, silent. Then, almost reluctantly, he says, “I think I needed to see you, too. To know I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t move on.”
Leo offers a faint, exhausted smile. “We all carried something out of that desert. Even if it wasn’t what we expected.”
A long pause follows. Then Mateo stands and crosses the room. He opens a drawer, pulls out a sealed manila envelope, and tosses it onto the table.
“What’s that?” Leo asks.
“The report you never got to read. The full one. Internal investigation, satellite images, comms logs, sealed interviews. I fought for a year to get access to it.”
Leo picks it up slowly, hands trembling. He doesn’t open it yet. Just stares at the name on the label: Vance, L.
“It proves you didn’t abandon us,” Mateo says. “It also proves someone else did. Higher up. But they buried it. Politics.”
Leo feels tears press against his eyes for the first time in years. Not just grief. Not just guilt. But something like… absolution.
“I’ll get it reopened,” Mateo adds. “I’ve got people who still listen. You deserve your name back.”
Leo looks at him, stunned. “Why would you do that?”
Mateo meets his eyes. “Because you didn’t leave me behind. Not really. And because I don’t want to carry hate anymore.”
Leo nods slowly. “Neither do I.”
The silence that follows is different now. Less heavy. Less sharp.
Outside, the sun begins to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the concrete yard. Somewhere in the distance, a flag lowers to the sound of retreat. The day is ending. But something else is beginning.
When Leo finally walks out of the base, the wind is still cold, but it no longer cuts quite so deep.
He walks beside Mateo now, not behind him. Not hiding. Not running.
And for the first time in four years, he lets the sun touch the markings on his wrist, unashamed.
