The hallway reeks of burnt circuits and stale air—classic military base aroma. I tug at the collar of my suit, the fabric clinging to the back of my neck like it's trying to fuse with my skin. Perfect. I spent days preparing for this, rehearsing every word like some overdramatic actor in a one-man play.

  Today’s the day.

  Through the windows, I spot the new construction. A massive cubic dome—or whatever the hell you want to call it—rising like an alien art project around the city. The transparent barrier distorts the outside world, blurring the relentless downpour hammering against it. The rain hasn't stopped in months, and when it finally does, the heat will roll in like someone cranked the planet’s thermostat to incinerate.

  The dome is supposed to keep the air warm. Keep it breathable. Keep us alive.

  Not that I plan on staying.

  I’m going to Mecanet. A clean break. A place where I can finally focus on my work without alien attacks, explosions, or some new nightmare unfolding on that godforsaken moon. I have dreams—big ones. Ones that don’t involve being a pillar propping up Ortol’s grand mission.

  Don’t get me wrong—Ortol's my brother, by blood, and by everything that matters. He wants to rebuild Alvecore, to bring back a city for millions of people who lost everything. It’s noble. It’s selfless. It’s... not my dream.

  And it’s about time I tell him that.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  The doors ahead are massive, cold—like everything else in this place. I inhale—big mistake. The stench of burnt-out machinery singes my throat. Swallowing the urge to gag, I push the door open.

  Inside, the air is thick, not with smoke, but with gritting teeth and clenched cheeks. A crowd huddles around a flickering screen, its feed struggling to hold an image. The blur sharpens just long enough to show an elite squad slicing through the storm, moving like shadows toward a massive cave—the one swallowing the storm whole.

  “Jim, status?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

  Ortol doesn’t look away from the screen. His jaw’s tight, his black-and-blonde hair a mess—again. Dude’s been living on stims and stubbornness for weeks. "General says everything’s going according to plan."

  Oh yeah. That’s military-speak for we hope nobody dies horribly.

  I glance at the screen. The squad is on that moon—the one orbiting Gergan, a gas giant so massive it makes everything else in the sky look like pebbles. Decades ago, humans tried to terraform it. Instead, they triggered storms so violent they nearly got themselves wiped out.

  Why am I thinking about this? Focus, Jrake. You’re here to talk to Ortol, not get lost in a mental history lecture.

  I shift, run a hand through my hair, try to find the words. How do you tell your best friend you’re done? That you’re stepping away from his grand purpose to chase something of your own?

  Before I can speak, Ortol grips my shoulder. Firm. Too firm. Like he's holding onto more than just me.

  "If we win this battle," he says, his voice steady but raw, "we'll get intel on the Navorians' plans. I can stop them, Jrake. I can finally focus on rebuilding Alvecore. Millions will have a place to live again."

  Millions of lives.

  I stare at the screen. The soldiers push forward through the storm, fighting for something bigger than themselves. The rain doesn’t stop. The wind doesn’t stop. But neither do they.

  And then there’s Ortol. This was never about him. It’s always been about them. A mission. A promise.

  I can’t leave. Not now.

  Not when people’s lives are hanging by a thread.

  But damn it—when are they not?

  I clench my fist. War. Disaster. Rinse and repeat. If I wait for peace? I’ll die waiting. But still, Ortol? I know he’ll never stop fighting for them. For us. Even if I walk away.

  So I swallow my words. Tighten my grip on Ortol’s arm.

  After this—after one last mission—I’ll tell him.

  I’ll go to Mecanet. I’ll follow my dream.

  But right now?

  Right now, I stand beside my brother.

  I nod, I fight, I pretend.

  Like I’m not already halfway out the door.

  How do you think the Navorians will strike next?