Not yet.
Grace’s scar—thin and uneven beneath her left eye—caught the morning sun. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t pretty.
It looked like something that had been stitched in a hurry, somewhere nobody was keeping score.
Still, she stayed silent. Still.
Not pride.
Something older than pride.
Then the General spoke.
Calm. Controlled. The kind of calm that makes your stomach drop before you even know why.
“Call sign,” he said.
A pause.
“Widow 27.”
Everything stopped.
The laughter died in midair. Heads snapped straight. Even the wind felt like it backed off.
Huxley blinked like he hadn’t heard right. “Widow… what?”
The General stepped down from the rise, boots meeting dirt slow and measured, like each step had weight behind it.
“You just ran your mouth at Widow 27, son.”
The field didn’t just go quiet.
It tightened—like every person standing there suddenly realized they were part of something they didn’t understand.
