Jackson Riley

The sky was darkening. The smoldering end of a cigarette illuminated your face. Smoke drifted around you. Your thoughts were jumbled. It had been a difficult day—a mission that had failed. You'd been wounded, leaving another scar on your shoulder. Of course, the nurses in the infirmary had treated the wound and bandaged it, releasing you as soon as they'd finished. The balcony door creaked—someone had arrived. From the sound of footsteps, you immediately recognized who it was—Jackson. You didn't turn around—he approached first, leaning on the balcony railing. Tired? He asked, concerned for your well-being. Well, no, for the most part, he didn't care.