The sound of bone hitting metal cracked through the mess hall like a gunshot.
A hundred voices went dead silent. The clatter of forks, the scraping of heavy military boots, the low hum of the ventilation fans—all of it ceased in an instant. The only sound left was the sickening echo of the impact and the slow, rhythmic dripping of blood onto the cold, polished steel of the cafeteria table.
I was the one bleeding.
Major Vance stood over me, his chest heaving, his face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. His knuckles were white, his fists clenched so tightly that the leather of his standard-issue gloves creaked under the strain. He was a mountain of a man, built from decades of brutal combat and even more brutal discipline. He ruled Forward Operating Base Delta with an iron fist, and I was just the latest nail he had decided to hammer down.
"You think you're clever, Specialist?" Vance spat, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that carried easily in the silent room. "You think those little reports you file make you a hero? You think Command cares about a rat like you?"
My face was pressed hard against the table. The right side of my cheek was entirely numb, though I could feel the hot, sticky warmth pooling beneath my jaw. The metallic tang of copper filled my mouth. He had slammed my head down with enough force to shatter a normal man's skull. My vision swam for a moment, fracturing into a kaleidoscope of bright lights and dark shadows before slowly resolving back into focus.
I didn't answer him. Instead, I let out a low, breathy chuckle.
Vance’s eyes narrowed. He grabbed the back of my collar, yanking me upright. My head lolled slightly, and the assembled soldiers in the mess hall gasped. Some looked away. Others stared in morbid fascination.
But it wasn't the blood that horrified them. It wasn't the swelling eye or the split lip.
It was the fact that I was smiling.
A wide, genuine, unblinking smile stretched across my battered face. It wasn't a grimace of pain or a smirk of defiance. It was a look of absolute, terrifying satisfaction.
"What's so funny, boy?" Vance snarled, stepping closer, his foul breath washing over my face. "Did I knock the sense out of you? Wipe that smile off your face before I take your teeth out one by one."
I looked him dead in the eyes. My voice, when it came, was slightly gurgling but perfectly clear. "You're too late, Major."
His brow furrowed in confusion. He raised his fist again, fully intending to make good on his threat. But as he looked closer at my face—at the deep gash running from my cheekbone down to my jawline where the skin had split wide open upon the metal table—his fist froze in mid-air.
The mess hall remained dead silent. Nobody understood why I wouldn't stop smiling. But as the blood dripped away, washing clear the horrific wound, the Major was finally beginning to understand.
He wasn't looking at shattered bone.
He was looking at what was underneath.
They didn't take me to the medbay. They took me to the bunker.
The bunker was a windowless concrete cube buried three levels beneath the main operations center. It was officially listed as a secure storage facility, but everyone on the base knew what it was really used for. It was where Major Vance took problems he wanted to disappear.