The sound of raised voices carries through the King house, a far cry from the normal relaxed atmosphere that usually filled their home.
"You're throwing your life away, Zachary." Professor King's voice was strained, barely controlled. He stood rigid by the fireplace, his usually calm demeanor cracking under the weight of his frustration. "There are a thousand other ways to serve your country that don't involve risking your life."
Eighteen-year-old Zack sits forward on the edge of the leather couch, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. His jaw set in a stubborn line, hardened by the conviction of a young man who had already made up his mind.
"Dad, I've already signed the papers," Zack says, his voice calm despite the tension crackling in the air between them. "I leave for basic training in three weeks."
"You could withdraw your application," his father shoots back, running a hand through his thinning hair. "You're barely eighteen. You don't understand what you're signing up for."
"I understand perfectly, Dad." Zack stands up, easily matching his father's height. "I want to defend my country. I want to protect the people I love. What's so wrong with that?"
Professor King's face flushes red. "I admire your need to feel protective, son. You're our firstborn, of course you'd feel that way." He takes a deep breath, visibly trying to rein himself in. "But violence is never the solution. It's a broken ideology that convinces our children that their lives are expendable for-"
"Scott." Mrs. King's gentle voice cuts through her husband's building tirade. She'd been sitting quietly in her reading chair, staring at the floor while her two favorite men hashed it out. "That's enough."
"Yuna, you can't possibly support this," Professor King turns to his wife, his words pleading. "Talk to him. Make him see reason."
Mrs. King looks between her husband and her son, her heart breaking for both of them. "I support our son making his own choices," she says quietly but with finality. "Even when those choices terrify me."
Zack's expression softens slightly at his mother's words, but his resolve remains unshaken. "I'm not doing this to hurt you, Dad. I'm doing this because it feels right. Because it feels like... like my purpose."
"Your purpose?" Professor King's voice cracks on the word. "Your purpose is to get yourself killed in some desert on the other side of the world?"
"My purpose is to serve something bigger than myself." Zack replies, his voice rising to match his father's. "Maybe that's hard for you to understand from your ivory tower, Dad, but some of us believe in actually doing something instead of just talking about it."
The words hang in the air like a physical blow. Professor King's face goes pale, and Mrs. King gasps softly.
"Zack," she whispers, but he is already moving toward the doorway, his shoulders rigid with anger and hurt.
"I'm done with this conversation," he says without turning around. "I'm eighteen, an adult. And I've made my decision."
He strides out of the living room, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor, and nearly collides with a small figure pressed up against the hallway wall.
"Chloe?" He stops short, his anger immediately dissipating at the sight of his thirteen-year-old sister. Chloe stands frozen like a deer in headlights, her eyes wide with unshed tears. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough," Chloe says coldly, brushing by Zack to head back to her bedroom.
Zack lets out a deep sigh and follows his little sister, his heart sinking with each step. He could hear his parents' voices in the living room—his mother's soothing tone attempting to calm his father's agitated protests. But all he could focus on right now was the sound of Chloe's door clicking shut.
He stands outside her room for a long moment, gathering his courage and trying to find the words to explain to his little sister why he had to leave home.
This conversation would be harder than facing down his father's disappointment. When it came to his sister, his armor had never been worth much.
Finally, he knocked softly on her door.
"Chlo?" He uses the nickname he'd given her as a six-year-old kid. "Can I come in?"
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the muffled sound of his parents still arguing downstairs.
Just when he thought she might ignore him completely, her voice comes through the door, small and hurt. "Are you and Dad fighting again?"
Zack presses his forehead against the cool wood of her door, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Dad's just upset because of his beliefs about war and violence. He thinks there are better ways to solve problems."
More silence.
Then, Chloe's door opens.
She stands in her doorway, arms crossed, youthful indignation clear on her face, but tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. "He doesn't want you to get blown up, you mean."
Zack lets out a surprised laugh at her brashness. "Yeah, I guess that's the simplified version."
Chloe turns and sulks back into her room, making her way to her favorite spot on her window seat. Zack follows cautiously, settling himself on the opposite end of the cushioned bench.
"I don't want you to go," she says quietly, her words barely audible as she glares out at the familiar neighborhood beyond her window. "And I don't get why you think you have to."
Zack stares down at his hands, guilt settling over him like a heavy blanket. "I'm not talented like you, Chlo," he says quietly. "I'm not brilliant like Dad, or gifted like mum with the piano. I'm just... regular. But this—serving my country, protecting the people I love—this feels like something I could actually be good at. Something that matters. And I'd like to give it my best shot."
"You are talented," Chloe protests fiercely, turning to face him with flashing fire in her eyes. "You play guitar better than anyone I know. And you helped me with my science project that time—the one I won first place, remember?"
Zack smiles sadly. "Those are nice things, Chlo. But they're not... they're not enough for me. I want to do something that makes a real difference. I want to know that I'm helping protect you and Mom and Dad, and everyone I care about."
Chloe is quiet for a long moment, processing his words with the serious consideration she gave to everything her brother said.
"Promise me something," she finally says, looking up at him with watery brown eyes that reminded him painfully of his mother's.
"Anything."
"Promise me you'll come back in one piece." Her voice was steady now, but he could see the fear lurking behind her brave facade. "Promise me you won't do anything stupid just to prove you're a hero."
Zack reaches out and gently takes one of her small hands between both his larger ones. "I promise, Chlo," he says solemnly, meeting her gaze directly. "I promise I'll always come back to you and Mom and Dad. I'll be careful, and I'll be smart. And I'll remember that I have the best little sister in the world waiting for me to come home."
Chloe studies his face for a long moment, as if memorizing every detail—the earnest set of his jaw, the green eyes that had always been so easy to read, the jet black hair that constantly fell across his forehead.
Then she nods slowly, satisfied with what she saw there.
"Okay then," she says quietly. "You can go."
Zack gives Chloe's hand a reassuring squeeze, grateful for her acceptance of his wishes.
Together they sit in silence for a while, enjoying the comfort of each other's company.
Outside Chloe's window, the sun sets over their quiet neighborhood, painting everything in warm shades of gold and amber.
"Journee's not going to be happy about you leaving." Chloe says eventually. "She has the biggest crush on you, you know."
"I guess I'll have to get her something to butter her up then." Zack nudges Chloe's shoulder. "And for you as well."
Chloe rolls her eyes. "You'll need to bring back enough chocolate to last until I'm thirty to make up for this. Every year until you retire from the military."
Zack laughs, playfully nudging Chloe. "Once a big back, always a big back, hey Chlo."
Chloe arches an eyebrow, fighting back a grin. "Takes one to know one, big brother."