Adam ran. He didn't know where he was going—only that he had to keep moving. His breath came in ragged bursts, his legs burning as he pushed forward. When he finally stopped, gasping for air, he realized where he was.
A cemetery.
Beneath his feet, planks lay embedded in the ground, each one etched with a name. He took a step forward, and suddenly, a flicker of light emerged. A hologram spun into existence, its motion like a pirouette before settling into form. As Adam moved, more figures appeared—hazy echoes of the past, standing over their own graves.
Then he saw her.
A woman stood before a grave, her gaze locked onto him. She wasn't a hologram.
Adam swallowed hard. His voice came as a whisper, raw and uneven.
"Soldier, I've lost a lot of people."
The woman waved Adam over. Without hesitation, he followed as she took his wrist, guiding him toward a nearby building. They entered a dimly lit room filled with rows of chairs and a single podium at the front. Adam sat beside her, glancing around. The room was full of women—mothers, wives, and sisters of the fallen.
At the podium, a grieving woman wiped her eyes before speaking.
"I lost two sons to this war," she said, voice trembling. "And nothing seems to be getting better. What did my children die for?" Her words broke into sobs as she stepped down.
Another woman took her place. "Would anyone else like to share?"
Adam felt a tap on his shoulder. The woman beside him gestured toward the podium.
"Go on," she urged.
The host smiled encouragingly. "Don't be shy."
A wave of hands reached out as Adam walked forward, some brushing against him as if searching for something—comfort, connection, proof he was real.
Standing at the podium, Adam cleared his throat. "Uh… I fought in the war too. Lost a few friends. Still, nothing is getting better."
He turned to leave, but the host caught his arm, holding him in place.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Adam Blomen."
"And where did you serve?"
He hesitated for only a second. "I was in the Thunderbolt Brigade. We fought the Zenonites… lost countless lives."
As he stepped back, the host tightened her grip again.
"Adam, as you can see, most of us here have lost husbands, sons, and brothers. If you were speaking as their father, son, brother, or husband… what would you say to ease their pain?"
The room was silent. Adam exhaled.
"I know you miss me, and I miss you. But if I got a second chance… I'd do it all again. I'm happy I fought to keep you safe."
A ripple of quiet sobs spread through the room. Some women buried their faces in their hands, others clutched their neighbors for support.
Except for one.
"I can't believe they fell for that bullshit," a voice scoffed from the back.
Adam turned sharply. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." The woman stood, arms crossed. "You're no soldier. Not of the Thunderbolt Brigade."
Adam held her gaze for a moment—then turned away, ignoring her.
As the meeting ended, most of the women came to thank Adam, their tear-streaked faces filled with gratitude. He nodded, offering quiet reassurances, though the weight of their loss pressed on him like an invisible hand.
When the last of them left, his accuser approached.
"What kind of person sinks so low?" she asked, her voice laced with quiet fury. "So low they prey on grieving widows and mothers?"
Adam turned away without answering, but she followed.
"Answer me."
She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly firm.
"Mum, please—"
The slap came fast, sharp, and sudden. Adam barely reacted. He only looked at her.
Then, as he started to step away, she struck him again—this time pounding her fists against his chest, her blows landing with the force of grief more than anger. He didn't stop her. Instead, he pulled her in, wrapping his arms around her in an unyielding embrace.
She resisted at first, her fists still pressing against him, then collapsed into his hold. Sobs racked her body as she sank to her knees, and Adam went down with her, never letting go.
When the storm of her grief finally passed, she wiped her face and exhaled shakily.
"Come on," she said, voice raw. "I'm buying you a drink."
Adam nodded.
They went to a small restaurant, where a tired-looking waiter greeted them and handed them menus. Adam glanced over the options and knew immediately they would be awful.
Before he could decide, the woman snatched his menu and hers, handing them back.
"Two squid inks. Black."
The waiter nodded and left.
Adam leaned forward. "So, you know my name. Will you tell me yours?"
She rested her elbows on the table, watching him carefully. "First, tell me why you did what you did."
Adam sighed. "I lied about being in the Thunderbolt Brigade. But I wasn't lying when I said I lost friends."
Something in his eyes made her pause. Whatever she was looking for, she saw it.
"I'm Hezme," she finally said.
Adam extended his hand. "Hezme. It's nice to meet you."
She hesitated—then took it.
The waiter set their drinks on the table. Adam took a cautious sip—and immediately winced.
Hezme burst into laughter.
Adam shook his head, suppressing a grin. "This is terrible."
"You'll get used to it," she said, still chuckling.
For a moment, the tension between them eased. Then Hezme exhaled, her laughter fading.
"My brother was in the Thunderbolt Brigade," she said quietly. "He died on a mission. The worst part was… there was no body. How are we supposed to mourn without a body?"
She bowed her head, wiping at her face before lifting it again, trying to hide the tears.
Adam watched her, waiting.
"I never believed the story they told me about how he died," Hezme admitted.
Adam tilted his head. "You have a knack for knowing when someone's lying. I should know."
That made her glance up at him.
"If you believe they're hiding something," he continued, "then I'll help you find out what really happened to your brother."
Hezme studied him for a long moment, searching his face. "Why?"
Adam took another sip of his awful drink, this time without flinching.
"Because I know what it's like to need the truth."