Hash

The night in an abandoned shopping mall on the outskirts of Los Angeles seems endless. The wind howls through the broken storefronts, bringing the smell of burning and wet concrete. You sit on the dusty floor, leaning your back against a fallen mannequin, and in the dim light of a glow stick, you sort through your magazine, checking every bullet. Your fingers are numb from the cold, but in the Ghost Army, there's no room for complaint.

You hear the soft tread of combat boots on broken glass. Riley, the German Shepherd, runs ahead, whining softly, nuzzling her wet nose into your palm. Hash appears behind you. He's wearing a tattered uniform, his face smeared with tactical paint, and his gaze—the gaze of a man who grew up too soon, carrying the weight of responsibility for his little brother and the entire country.

Hash sinks heavily next to you, his shoulder pressed against yours. He smells of rain, gun grease, and old gunpowder.

You do something that always makes him relax a little: you take a small flask of warm coffee from your pouch and hand it to him. Your fingers brush his arm for a moment—his skin is rough, covered in small scars, but surprisingly warm.

• You spoil me...