The dream smelled of wet wool and ozone.

Corporal James Whitmore woke in the cold.

He was not in bed.

He was in the trench.

The mud sucked at his boots.

Thick. Black. Heavy.

He looked down.

His hands were empty.

No rifle.

No bayonet.

Only the weight of the brass uniform.

The buttons were cold.

He knew them.

He had polished them for thirty years.

Now they felt like teeth.

"James."

A voice from the dark.

Low. Rough.

He turned.

Thomas Bradshaw stood there.

Wet. Shivering.

His tunic was torn.

Blood ran from his elbow.

Dark. Red. Hot.

"Thomas," James said.

His voice cracked.

Dust in his throat.

"Where is the line?"

Thomas smiled.

It was a bad smile.

Tired.

"Behind us."

James looked up.

The sky was wrong.

Not blue.

Not grey.

It was a swirling vortex of static.

White noise.

Silent screams.

"Listen," Thomas said.

"Can you hear it?"

James listened.

He heard the wind.

He heard the mud drying.

He heard his own heart.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Fast.

"Nothing," James said.

"Lies," Thomas said.

He stepped closer.

The smell of iron.

"Look at my chest."

James looked.

The tunic was open.

No wound.

Just skin.

Pale.

Blue veins.

"Take it," Thomas said.

"Take the uniform."

James shook his head.

"I am a soldier."

"You are a ghost," Thomas said.

"The system is broken."

"It is not broken," James said.

"It is just... different."

"Different?"

Thomas laughed.

A dry sound.

Like paper tearing.

"They think we failed."

"We held the line."

"They think we ran."

"We did not run."

"Then why are you here?"

James looked at his hands.

The brass buttons gleamed.

"Because they need the uniform."

"Who?"

"Them."

Thomas pointed up.

At the static sky.

"Open the coat," Thomas said.

James hesitated.

His fingers shook.

He reached for the top button.

The metal was warm.

Too warm.

He undid it.

One.

Two.

Three.

The coat fell open.

Inside, there was no shirt.

Only air.

Cold, sharp air.

And a light.

Faint.

Blue.

Pulsing.

Like a dying star.

"Give it to me," Thomas said.

"Give what?"

"The light."

"It is in me."

"It is in the uniform."

James touched the light.

It burned.

Not heat.

Cold.

A deep, freezing burn.

"James," Thomas said.

"Let go."

"I can't."

"You must."

"Why?"

"Because I am going to die."

"No."

"Yes."

Thomas grabbed James’s arm.

His grip was tight.

Claws digging in.

"Let go of the badge," Thomas said.

"Let go of the rank."

"Let go of the name."

James pulled away.

"Let go."

The static in the sky grew louder.

A hum.

A drone.

The mud began to boil.

Bubbles of black sludge.

Rising.

Falling.

Rising.

James felt the light in his chest.

It was expanding.

Pushing against his ribs.

Cracking them.

A sharp pain.

White.

Blinding.

"James!" Thomas screamed.

The trench walls collapsed.

Dirt rained down.

James fell.

He hit the ground.

Hard.

His back cracked.

He rolled.

Saw Thomas.

Thomas was fading.

His edges blurred.

Becoming mist.

"Take it," Thomas whispered.

The light.

The uniform.

The weight.

James closed his eyes.

He felt the sacrifice.

It was not a choice.

It was a command.

He opened his mouth.

The light poured out.

Not a beam.

A flood.

It hit Thomas.

The mist solidified.

Thomas gasped.

He stood up.

The tears stopped.

The blood dried.

He looked at James.

His eyes were clear.

Blue.

Bright.

"Thank you," Thomas said.

He turned.

He walked away.

Into the static.

The noise grew louder.

James lay in the mud.

The uniform was gone.

He was naked.

Cold.

Small.

The trench was empty.

The sky was clear.

Blue.

Real.

He opened his eyes.

He was in the barracks.

The room was dark.

Rain tapped on the window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He sat up.

His body ached.

Every bone.

He looked at his hands.

They were clean.

No mud.

No blood.

He looked at his chest.

His shirt was buttoned.

The brass buttons were there.

Cold.

Hard.

He touched them.

They were solid.

Real.

He stood up.

His legs shook.

He walked to the mirror.

The glass was foggy.

He wiped it.

His face stared back.

Old.

Tired.

But alive.

He looked at his rank.

The insignia.

It was dull.

Grey.

He reached for it.

His fingers hovered.

He thought of Thomas.

The mist.

The light.

The cold burn.

He grabbed the insignia.

He pulled.

It did not come off.

He pulled harder.

The skin tore.

Blood welled up.

He didn't stop.

He ripped it free.

A strip of flesh hung down.

Red.

Raw.

He looked at the pin.

It was bent.

Broken.

He dropped it.

It hit the floor.

A small metallic clink.

He bled.

Dripped.

Drop by drop.

On the wood.

Dark spots.

Spreading.

He felt weak.

Light-headed.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

His breathing was shallow.

In. Out.

In. Out.

The rain continued.

A steady rhythm.

He looked at the door.

It was closed.

Locked.

He knew someone was outside.

He could feel it.

The pressure.

The gaze.

They would come.

The superiors.

The inspectors.

To check the uniform.

To check the rank.

To see if he was fit.

He was not fit.

He was broken.

He was empty.

He was free.

He closed his eyes.

The pain was sharp.

But it was his.

Not the system’s.

Not the uniform’s.

His.

He waited.

The footsteps approached.

Heavy.

Boots on stone.

Stopping.

The handle turned.

The door creaked.

Light spilled in.

Blinding.

White.

He did not open his eyes.

He did not speak.

He just bled.

The silence was heavy.

Thick.

It pressed against his ears.

He heard a breath.

Sharp.

Angry.

"Whitmore."

The voice.

Colonel Ashworth.

Cold.

Flat.

"Whitmore, are you asleep?"

James did not move.

"Whitmore!"

A hand grabbed his shoulder.

Squeezed.

Hard.

James flinched.

He opened his eyes.

The Colonel stood over him.

Tall.

Broad.

His face was a mask.

No emotion.

Just duty.

"Look at you," the Colonel said.

His eyes scanned the room.

They landed on the floor.

On the blood.

On the broken pin.

His brow furrowed.

A twitch.

Almost.

Barely.

"What is this?"

James looked at the pin.

He looked at the Colonel.

He said nothing.

"Answer me," the Colonel said.

His voice rose.

Sharp.

"Did you damage the uniform?"

James looked at his chest.

The tear.

The blood.

The absence of the insignia.

He nodded.

The Colonel stepped back.

His hand went to his side.

Not for a weapon.

For a notepad.

He clicked the pen.

The sound was loud.

In the small room.

It echoed.

"Carelessness," the Colonel said.

"Disrespect."

"Disciplinary action."

He wrote.

The scratch of the pen.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

James watched.

He felt the drain.

The blood loss.

The cold.

But also a lightness.

A float.

He was not a soldier.

He was a man.

Bleeding.

Alone.

The Colonel looked up.

His eyes were hard.

"You will report to the infirmary."

"You will surrender the damaged uniform."

"You will await orders."

"Yes, sir," James said.

His voice was quiet.

Weak.

But clear.

The Colonel stared at him.

Something flickered.

Confusion.

Doubt.

It vanished.

The mask returned.

"Move," the Colonel said.

He turned.

He walked to the door.

He paused.

He looked back.

"Whitmore."

"Yes, sir."

"Did you see someone?"

James shook his head.

"No, sir."

The Colonel nodded.

Satisfied.

He left.

The door closed.

The lock clicked.

James was alone.

The rain stopped.

The silence returned.

He looked at his hands.

They were steady.

No more shaking.

He looked at the mirror.

His face was pale.

But calm.

The tear in the shirt.

The blood.

The proof.

He touched the scar.

It throbbed.

Alive.

He remembered the dream.

The mud.

The static.

The light.

Thomas.

Gone.

Saved.

Or lost.

It did not matter.

The weight was gone.

The uniform was not on him.

It was on the floor.

In the infirmary.

In the archive.

In the system.

He was outside.

He stood up.

His legs held.

He walked to the window.

The night was dark.

Stars.

Faint.

Distant.

But real.

He breathed.

The air was cool.

Clean.

He did not look back.

He did not look at the door.

He looked out.

Into the dark.

Into the unknown.

He was free.

The blood dripped.

One last drop.

It fell.

Silent.

Dark.

On the wood.

He closed the curtain.

The light died.

The room was black.

He was in the dark.

Alive.

Breathing.

Waiting.

For nothing.

For everything.

The end.

The beginning.

The space between.

He sat.

He waited.

The dark held him.

Tight.

Safe.

His.