It happens.
Shift rotations get messy, especially with Coalition command constantly shuffling units around like pieces on a board.
I keep walking.
Don’t fixate.
Don’t make it obvious.
But as I reach the end of my route and circle back, my eyes drift there again.
Still empty.
The space where he usually stands feels wrong, like a missing tooth you can’t stop probing with your tongue.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
He’s Coalition.
He’s the enemy.
Whatever arrangement we have—it’s nothing. It’s convenience. It’s… survival.
Not personal.
I stop near the midpoint of my patrol and pretend to check the fence integrity, running my gloved hand along the metal links.
Cold. Slight vibration. Steady current.
Everything exactly as it should be.
Except for that one gap in the pattern.
A pair of Coalition soldiers rotate into the sector, neither of them him. One is broader, heavier, with a scar running down the side of his neck. The other keeps his head down, movements sharp and efficient.
New.
Or at least new to this position.
I watch them for a moment, cataloging their posture, their spacing, the way they move relative to each other.
Different.
Not wrong.
Just… not the same.
I force my attention away and continue my patrol, boots crunching against the dry ground.
“Problem, Lieutenant?”
One of the other IHC guards falls into step beside me, his voice casual but edged with curiosity.
“Negative,” I say.
“You’ve been staring at that post like it insulted your mother.”
I shoot him a look.
