There's a fine line between right and wrong.

Which he had said before and told himself many times since being at war had numbed him enough not to stomach any emotions. Not after what he did back at the tunnel after rescuing Charlie.

Pulling in the van after entering the 141 base, headlights slicing through the night mist before flicking off. John killed the engine with a sharp twist of his wrist and sat still for a second, breathing through his nose. He opened the door and step out.

The cold, wet air did nothing to cool the heat rolling off him like steam. His shoulders remained squared, his back straight as if the weight of what he carried hadn't affected him. As if the box locked in the back of the van didn't contain the final proof that this was personal now.

Gaz stumbled out next, slamming the door shut with more force than needed. He looked pale. Green around the edges. He'd vomited twice on the ride back and didn't say a word the entire way.

He made his way around the front of the van and glanced at Gaz.

"You good?"

Gaz wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and forced a nod. "I'm good, sir."

John didn't believe him. He'd seen that look in countless men before.

"No need to act tough," he said roughly, his tone rumbled in his chest. "You did what you have too."

Gaz nodded, yet, his lips were thin and tight.

"Get yourself cleaned up," he said quietly and patted his chest.

He nodded and walked toward the barracks without another word. His pace was steady, but the way his jaw clenched gave him away.

John stood still for a moment. The weight of the night hung over him. The act. The cleanup. The message now prepped to be sent to Zakharov. He rolled his shoulder once and turned toward the entrance of the base.

***

As he walked through the door into the lit lounge room, his boots left faint marks of mud and fresh wetness clinging between his skin of the hem of his tactical pants.

The tactical vest still clipped around his frame except he had unclipped the helmet. His shirt underneath was damp from sweat, and his fingerless gloves bore the dark brown stains of dried blood within his finger nails.

His forearms were streaked with dark dust and some dried blood also from his 'handy work'. All of his attire was drenched with sweat and dirt.

He looked like a ghost returning from war.

When he entered the room, the low hum of lullaby music met him.

Simon sat on the couch with one arm around Gabby, both of them settled in with exhaustion. A crib beside them rocked with Ivory asleep inside, her tiny chest rising and falling as the melody played on loop.

Far from them, Levi slouched into a smaller couch, arms folded, one ankle propped over his knee. He took some nap until he opened his eyes and looked up first, then slowly sat up straighter when he took in John's appearance.

"Oh hey," Levi quickly greeted before looking away. Almost nervous.

Gabby glanced up next, her expression carefully unreadable—except for the hint of understanding behind her eyes. She'd seen this version of John before. She knew better than to ask.

Simon gave a blink before sitting up just enough. "You look like you walked straight through hell and brought some of it back with you, Price."

John didn't answer. He just looked at the crib, then back at the two of them. "How's Charlie?"

"Simon gave her some pills to help her sleep," Gabby answered. "She was complaining about headaches and body aches. Probably still a mix of what was in her system."

"It's a low dose," Simon added. "Enough to keep the pain at bay without knocking her out cold."

John exhaled hard through his nose, rubbing his face with both hands. The dried blood cracked slightly on his gloves. He dropped his hands to his sides again.

"I helped her freshen up. Brushed her hair, gave her my fresh clothes, which she kinda fit. Tried to feed her something, but she got upset." Gabby kept going, watching him carefully.

"Upset?" His brows arched.

"She said the smell made her sick. Cried through it. She looked like she was holding it together until she cracked. I calmed her down as much as I could. Told her it's normal. She finally ate, just a little. Then I took her to Levi's room, which he offered. He'll sleep outside. She's out now."

A long silence settled over the room.

His jaw flexed as he sighed hard and started rubbing at the back of his neck.

"I should've gotten there sooner," he muttered under his breath, mostly to himself.

"Well, you're here now. We were wondering when are you coming back. I'm guessing the job is done?" Gabby raised an eyebrow and asked.

"It's done." John answered.

"What's done?" Levi frowned.

"You don't want to know," Simon told him.

Levi almost opened his mouth to say more, but chose not to budge in since he's too tired anyways.

Gabby stood from the couch and punched his arm lightly and she smiled.

"Now, Gramps," she teased, "I don't want to be hearing any noises on the other side of these incredibly thin walls. I'd love to get some sleep tonight."

Simon stifled a snort and shook his head. Fighting off a smile he tried not to make it obvious of her inside joke.

John, without missing a beat, turned his head toward her.

"Oh, like you and Simon haven't made enough noise to keep me up at nights on the other side of those thin walls." He said flatly, but laced with dry humor that only he could pull off at a hard time like this.

Gabby blinked, her mouth falling open in exaggerated offense. "Excuse me?!"

"You heard me. I'm out." John added without a concern and turned away before anyone could respond, heading toward the hallway that led to his quarter room. His hand tugged at the straps of his vest as he went.

Simon didn't even try to hide his smirk now. "He's not wrong," he muttered.

Levi, sitting off to the side, looked between them with narrowed eyes. "Wait... what?"

Gabby waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it, Levi."

"You'll understand when you're older," Simon teased and let out a hearty chuckle.

Levi frowned in return.

"I'm twenty-five."

And Simon shrugged as if it's not a big deal.

***

His boots thudded against the concrete floor as he reached the end of the hall and pushed open the door to his room. Turning on the light of his quarter was as unadorned as the man himself—minimal.

A single bed tucked into the corner, sheets pulled tight and military-neat. A nightstand, a small lamp, a shelf with a few books dog-eared and dusted and a desk with a chair. A worn jacket hung from a hook near the door. No pictures. No keepsakes. Nothing that looked like it belonged here besides his apartment. There was an adjoining bathroom in this room. Small, but private. A cracked mirror above the sink. A steel-framed shower stall, its tiles gray from years of use.

John unclipped his vest and let it drop onto the chair with a heavy thump. One by one, he peeled the rest of his gear away—his belt, his gloves, his shirt damp with sweat, his boots caked with dirt. They all hit the floor like pieces of armor discarded after battle. His dog tags clicked softly as they fell against his chest when he pulled the shirt over his shirt. The slight pain or an ache he grunted through. He stood naked, entered the bathroom, and didn't bother to look at his reflection when he passed it. He knew what he'd see.

A weapon, not a man.

When he stepped into the shower and turned the knob. The pipes groaned before the hot water came rushing down. It hit his back and he sighed like a weight lifted off from his shoulders as steam rising around him in curls.

For a while, he didn't move.

Just stood there, letting the water hammer across his broad shoulders, over his scars and worn skin. He lifted his head and closed his eyes, allowing the water to wash blood and dust from him. It swirled at his feet, mixing with dirt, gunpowder, and smoke-stained sweat.

His knuckles were raw. One of them split. The skin around it was bruised, and he opened his eyes and looked at them. He stared at it like it belonged to someone else.

This part was always the same. Wash. Breathe. Forget.

He had trained himself not to think about it too long. Not the face. Not the look in their eyes. Not the way the body slumped when the job was done. It was always a job. War didn't make room for second thoughts.

That's what MacMillan had taught him.

Stuff it down, lock it up, move on. Do what needs to be done.

He shut his eyes and dropped his hands to his side as he let water spray under him, allowing the heat sting against a deep bruise on his ribs. His body ached in places that wouldn't show.

The mission had gone as planned. Clean in execution, even if the memory of it felt soaked in blood.

He was used to this.

But this time was different.

His mind didn't go blank like it usually did. Instead, it drifted to Charlie.

The way she clung to him when he rescued her. The tremble in her voice. The way she was breathing and her body shook when he was carrying her out of the room where he had killed Harkin. And how her skin felt warm even while her spirit trembled.

He exhaled hard. The water splashed down his neck, washing over the curve of his spine.

He knew the truth.

She didn't belong in his world.

Not with the man he was trained to be. Not with a soldier who'd buried so much of himself that there was barely anything left to give.

But somehow, she still wanted him.

And he wanted her too.

Not in the way a soldier wants a peaceful night. Not the way a man craves sexual warmth in cold sheets.

He wanted to keep her.

To have and to hold, even through war.

His heart fought his head. Logic screamed at him. She would never be safe beside him. She was a target the moment she became his.

But his heart didn't care. He knew early on when she looked at him, she didn't see a weapon. She saw a man.

And God help him, he wanted to be that man for her. Even if it went against everything he'd stay away and been trained for.

The water began to cool before the steam faded as minutes pass by. He didn't move.

He just stood there and opened his eyes.

War would never leave him, but she could still find him inside it.

Stepping out of the shower, the cold air of the bathroom clung to his damp skin as he reached for the towel and dragged it across his shoulders, drying the water from his chest and arms. Then, he ran the towel over his beard, then through his hair, no care for style or softness, just enough to keep it from dripping.

He moved back into the bedroom naked, the dim overhead light casting long shadows across his back. His gait was heavy, slow, but not from pain—just from the wear of the night.

He pulled open the dresser drawer and grabbed a basic olive-green shirt and black sleep shorts, no boxer underneath. Just skin and muscle beneath the cotton fabric.

Reaching to his backpack, he pulled out a tomahawk and stared at the object. It was worn from use, but not dulled. The blade edge still sharp. Along the crescent curve of the axe head, a thin rusted line of dried blood clung to it like a memory that refused to fade.

He would clean it later after getting some rest with Charlie.

When he set the tomahawk on the dresser and made a mental note. Levi would need to track Zakharov's exact location because before he deploy to Prague.

He needed to send him a message and it was going to come in a box with a gift of his 'handy' work.