(Immediate aftermath, forward operating base)

  The forward shelter was little more than a canvas roof and a rattling heater. Rotors thundered somewhere beyond the tents, fading as the evac bird lifted away with the recovered SAS casualty.

  Dig stood beside a folding table, helmet under one arm, gloves tucked into his belt. His right leg felt wrong — loose and tight at the same time, like something important had been torn just enough to betray him later. He kept his weight off it.

  The SAS operators watched him like men seeing something they didn’t know how to name.

  The younger one, the one who had helped haul Dig the last meter up the ravine, stepped forward.

  “You came down after him,” he said. “Alone.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Dig shrugged. “That’s the job.”

  The older operator — scar near his eyebrow, eyes sharp even in the dim light — studied Dig more closely. His gaze traveled down Dig’s stance, paused at the subtle off-loading of weight.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “No,” Dig said.

  The older operator raised an eyebrow. “You’re lying.”

  Dig exhaled once. “I’m fine enough.”

  One of the medics glanced up from a crate of supplies.

  “His knee’s swelling. He needs evac.”

  Dig didn’t turn around. “I’ll walk it off.”

  The SAS men exchanged a look — the kind that passes entire conversations without sound.

  The younger one swallowed, stepped closer, lowered his voice.

  “If you ever need us,” he said, “anything… you call.”

  Dig didn’t answer at first. He looked past them, out into the storm, as if thinking about roads he’d never take.

  “I won’t,” he said quietly.

  The older operator shook his head.

  “Not the point,” he said. “You call.”

  A long beat.

  Then Dig gave a single, small nod.

  “Alright.”

  That was enough.

  A bond forged in pain, sealed in understatement, and carried silently.