Evening formation found Sunshine Squad assembled in their usual corner of the common area.

The space was crowded—more squads than usual packed into the hall, everyone talking about the Academy announcement in voices that ranged from excited to terrified.

Bright sat with his squad, a field ration growing cold on his lap. He'd taken three bites before deciding nutrition was sufficient and setting it aside.

Mara sat as far from him as the bench allowed. She'd been avoiding his eyes all day, and he'd let her. Simpler that way.

Duncan watched both of them with poorly concealed concern.

Adam, perceptive as always, said nothing—but his calculating gaze moved between squad members like he was assembling a puzzle.

Baggen and Rolf were deep in conversation about the Academy, their voices carrying unrestrained jealousy in equal measure.

"—heard they have access to Expert-tier cores, just sitting in vaults—"

"—but the training's supposed to be brutal, wash-out rate's probably above fifty percent—"

"—still better than rotting in Vester forever—"

Bright listened with half his attention, the other half analyzing squad dynamics. Morale was strained. The Crimson Fang loss had damaged confidence, and his own coldness was creating distance. These were problems that needed addressing.

Tactical problems.

"We need to talk about the Academy slots," Bright said, cutting through the conversation.

The squad turned to him—some eager, some wary.

"Fifteen slots, hundreds of candidates," Bright continued. "Trial performance and officer recommendations are the selection criteria. That means our next three matches are critical. We win, we improve our chances. We lose, we fall behind the competition curve. I'm saying this for those eligible, no offense Rolf."

"What about people who are already guaranteed slots?" Mara's voice was quiet but sharp. "Do they still need to care about squad performance? Or can they just focus on their own advancement?"

The question hung in the air, weighted with implication.

Bright met her gaze directly for the first time since morning. "Everyone fights at full capability. Individual advancement depends on squad success. We're evaluated as a unit first, individuals second."

"That's a calculated answer," Mara said. "What about the human one?"

"There is no human answer. There's only what works and what doesn't."

Mara's jaw tightened. She stood abruptly, her meal forgotten. "I need air."

She left without waiting for dismissal.

Bright watched her go, noted the tension in her shoulders, the controlled fury in her stride. Filed it away as a variable requiring future attention.

Duncan stood too. "I'll check on her."

"Duncan—"

"I'm not asking permission." Duncan's voice was firm. "And when I get back, you and I are having a conversation. A real one."

He followed Mara's path out of the common area.

Bright sat in the resulting silence, aware of the squad's eyes on him. Baggen and Rolf exchanged glances. Adam's expression remained neutral, but his fingers drummed against his thigh—a tell that meant he was processing, calculating, reaching conclusions.

"Bright," Adam said quietly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Are you trying to protect yourself or push everyone away?"

The question cut through Bright's numbness like a blade through cloth. For a moment—just a fraction of a second—he felt something. A flicker of the grief and shame and confusion he'd buried.

Then the distance reasserted itself, comfortable and cold.

"I'm trying to keep us alive," Bright said.

"Everything else is secondary."

Adam nodded slowly. "I see."

But the way he said it made Bright suspect Adam saw more than he was saying.

Duncan found Mara on the eastern wall, staring out at the Shroud.

The Never-Ending Night pressed against Vester's defenses—a vast, hungry darkness held back only by the soul-force lamps that ringed the outpost. Crawlers moved in that darkness, visible only as shadows against shadows, waiting for weakness.

Mara's hands gripped the stone parapet, her knuckles white.

"He wasn't always like this," she said without turning. "When I first joined his first Squad, he was different. Intense, yeah. Driven. But he cared. About the squad. About people. He made terrible jokes and got frustrated when tactics didn't work and actually felt things."

Duncan leaned against the wall beside her. "He's grieving. People grieve differently."

"It's not just grief." Mara finally looked at him, her eyes wet. "I did something. Before the Crimson Fang match. Something selfish. And I think I broke him."

"What did you do?"

Mara hesitated. The words fought their way up her throat like broken glass. "I used him. When he was vulnerable. When Hailen had just died and he was falling apart. I… I made it about me. About making myself feel alive instead of helping him."

Duncan was quiet for a long moment. The Shroud whispered beyond the walls, a sound like distant breathing.

"Did you hurt him deliberately?" Duncan asked finally.

"No. But that doesn't make it better."

"No. It doesn't." Duncan turned to face her fully. "But here's the question that matters: Are you going to run from it, or are you going to help him?"

"How can I help him? He won't even look at me. Won't talk to me except in this shoddy group meetings. It's like I don't exist except as a squad member."

"So make him see you. Make him see all of us. As people, not pieces on a board." Duncan's voice was firm. "We all stumble, Mara. Every single one of us. The question isn't whether you made a mistake—it's whether you're willing to do the hard work of making it right."

Mara wiped her eyes. "What if he doesn't want to be reached? What if he's chosen this? Chosen to be cold and tactical and empty?"

"Then we reach him anyway. Because that's what squads do. That's what friends do."

Duncan gripped her shoulder. "He saved your life in our first match together. You've saved his twice since then. That counts for something. More than a single mistake, no matter how bad."

"He's sealing everything away. Just… burying it and pretending it doesn't exist."

"I know. I've seen it." Duncan's expression darkened. "My parents used to tell me the story of an uncle of mine, he did the same thing after my grandparents died. Shut down, became cold, started taking unnecessary risks. Walked into a Crawler nest on a routine patrol and barely came back. He survived, but only because his squad refused to let him fall."

"What happened to him?"

"He's an initiate last I heard. Stationed at one of the core outposts." Duncan smiled faintly. "They told me once that the only reason he survived those dark months was because people kept reaching for him even when he pushed them away. Kept reminding him he was human."

Mara nodded slowly. "So we don't give up. Got it."

"We don't give up. No matter how cold he gets. No matter how much he pushes."

Duncan straightened. "But we need to be smart about it. Subtle. He's watching for emotional complications, treating them like tactical problems. So we approach it differently."

"How?"

"We remind him what we're fighting for. Not through words—through actions. We be human. Loudly. Persistently. Until he can't ignore it anymore."

A patrol passed behind them, soldiers' voices low and tired. The watch change was coming. Soon the walls would fill with fresh guards, and the day shift would retreat to quarters for whatever rest they could steal.

Mara took a deep breath. "I'll try. I don't know if it'll work, but I'll try."

"That's all any of us can do."

They stood together on the wall, watching the Shroud breathe against Vester's lights.

Somewhere out there, Crawlers circled and plotted and waited. And somewhere inside the outpost, Bright was probably still training, pushing his enhanced body past reasonable limits, burying his humanity under layers of tactical necessity.

The next Trial match was in five days.

Fifteen Academy slots hung in the balance.

And Sunshine Squad was fracturing.

Duncan looked at Mara, saw the determination settling into her expression, and felt something like hope.

"Five days," he said. "We have five days to reach him before the next match, before he walls himself off completely. If he can't move past an instructor he knew for mere weeks, then the army will break him long before the enemy does."

"Then we'd better not waste time."

They returned to quarters together, walking in companionable silence. Behind them, the Shroud whispered promises of violence and death. Ahead of them, soul-force lamps burned bright, holding back the darkness.

For now.

Bright was still in the training yard when they returned.

He drilled alone under the lamplight, his movements precise and strained. Strike, pivot, counter. Strike, pivot, counter. The pattern repeated endlessly, hypnotic in its efficiency.

No wasted motion. No unnecessary emotion. Just pure, cold function.

Mara watched him from the doorway, her heart heavy.

"We'll reach him," Duncan said quietly beside her. "I promise."

Mara wanted to believe him.

But watching Bright move like a machine—like something that wore a human shape but had forgotten what it meant—she felt doubt curl in her stomach.

What if we're too late?

The thought followed her to sleep.

And in the morning, when Bright assembled them for additional training before dawn, his eyes were still empty.

Cold.

Inhuman.

But Mara didn't run.

Neither did Duncan.

They stood their ground and prepared to fight—not just Crawlers and rival squads, but for the soul of their friend.

Even if he didn't want to be saved.

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