Page 104

Not ornamental.
War wings.
Each feather was jagged at the edges, shaded with shadows and burn-like texture, a story in every stroke, flight through adversity, survival carved in ink.
They weren’t beautiful.
They were fierce. Worn. Real.
The wings of a man who’d lost something sacred and didn’t know how to put it down.
His gaze drifted to the side, toward the mirror angle that caught his ribs.
The Chakana stared back at him from his side, geometric lines bold against his skin, ancient and heavy with weight. The SEAL Trident was inked at its heart, framed perfectly in the center cutout, sharp, inked like iron, as if it had beenforged there by pain and loss.
Three realms. Three scars. Three truths.
Past, Present, Future.
Water, Earth, Sky.
Ukhupacha. Kaypacha. Hananpacha. The words etched down the side of the cross.
He didn’t speak the words aloud.
Didn’t have to.
The Chakana sat over the scar. He could still feel her hands on him. Still hear the whisper of the jungle. The Trident marked the space between the pain and the power. He lifted a hand, ran his fingers lightly over the edge of one wing. Not reverent, just quiet. Still trying to believe it was his.
His fingers drifted lower, brushing the edge of the Chakana. He curled his palm over the trident, the blunt press of muscle and bone fitting right over the ink like he was trying to hold something that could never be held again. His thumb passed over the lines, the sharp angles of the cross, the spear-point tips of the trident. He remembered the way her fingers had brushed his skin that day at the airfield, barely a touch, just enough to haunt him.
The wings were for her. For whatever force had taken her, transformed him, and left the sky permanently cracked above his head. But the cross?
That washersalone. For the woman who bled beside him. For the one who never said goodbye. He didn’t ink it for mythology. He inked it because he had to keep hersomewhere.
His ribs, right over the scar where she’d tried to save him, was the only place that still felt like hers. Her voice…Watch the sky for me, águila estrellada.The words echoed like a prayer and a curse. A whisper stitched into the fabric of who he was now. A vow he hadn’t stopped keeping.
He looked back up, staring at his reflection, the man with wings on his back, scars on his ribs, and silence in his heart. Wings he could never put down. Even when grounded. Even when bleeding. A gift. A burden. A memory of the woman who named him.
A breeze drifted through the open window, light but sharp, carrying the scent of earth, heat, something wild. He didn’t move. But for one breathless moment, he swore he felt the wings lift off his skin. Just a flutter. A stretch. A phantom pulse of motion down his back.
He turned fast. Nothing. Just ink. Flesh. Still his. Stillhim.
But something had shifted. Something had called to him in that compound.
He didn’t know what it was. But it hadn’t been blood loss. It sure as hell hadn’t been nothing. Whatever passed through that place, whatever judgment, whatever unexplained answer…It had been fuckingreal.
He stared at his back, remembering. It was after they got home. After the ink. Their celebratory watering-hole ritual. Late. Everyone gone but him and Shark. The bottle of whiskey was mostly empty. The jungle was far, far away, but the fire still crackled low between them.
Shark leaned in, voice rough with drink and memory. “That guy I took down…” He shifted, took a slow swig. Flash glanced at him. Shark didn’t rattle easy. “He said something. Right before we cuffed him.” He exhaled sharply.“I saw the gold judgment. I’m already dead. I’m just… waiting.”
Shark didn’t say more. Didn’t need to. He just tipped the bottle toward the shadows, then set it down. “Rumor has it those guys were institutionalized. Found them both dead in their beds.” Flash stared at nothing. “Weird shit, man.”
Suddenly, the wings on his back felt heavier.
The bar was low-lit,all aged leather booths and the faint scent of beer-soaked pine. Sports murmured from wall-mounted TVs, and the jukebox flicked from outlaw country to old-school rock without much ceremony. The air carried the easy hum of friendship and the clink of glasses, comfort, camaraderie, home base. The frog hogs were out in force, and Brawler sat at the end of the table nursing a whiskey, half-listening to Twister argue about the best smoker rub, while Easy took bets on which of Tex’s twins would break his new patio furniture first.
Flash leaned back, boots on an empty chair. “I give it two days before someone ends up in the ER with a Nerf dart to the cornea.”