SEVEN
CAIDEN
The air is thick with steam and the metallic smell of the hot water on the tiles.
The sound is bouncing and collapsing in on itself so that everything feels closer than it actually is.
It’s late enough that most of the unit has already come and gone.
The noise is reduced to the steady rush of a few remaining showerheads and the occasional locker door clanging shut somewhere behind me.
Mason is standing with his back to me when I step in. I recognise him — even from the back — before I consciously notice anything else. His head is tipped slightly forward under the spray. I step up to the shower beside him as he turns to face me.
The split on his lip is extreme, slightly swollen, and pulling tight when he breathes through his mouth.
There’s bruising spreading up along his cheekbone, the colour of it just starting to darken into a deep purple.
His knuckles are torn open in that unmistakable way that says whatever happened wasn’t clumsy, wasn’t accidental, and it wasn’t him walking into a door.
“Don’t,” he says defensively when he sees me staring.
I don’t answer him. I drop my towel onto the bench and step closer instead, refusing to pretend I haven’t seen what I’ve seen.
When he shifts to reach for the soap, he twists slightly under the spray, and that’s when I see his ribs.
The bruises spread from his ribs along his side, some of them finger-shaped, already dark enough to tell me they’ll hurt tomorrow in a way he won’t be able to hide.
It looks like someone held him down.
The anger travels so fast through my body that it almost makes me sick. “What the fuck happened?”
“Nothing,” he says, exhaling slowly through his nose.
“That’s not nothing.”
“It is,” he replies, and he makes it sound like a conclusion rather than a denial. “Lost my footing. Don’t worry, it’s fine.”
“Who did it, Connor?” I ask, watching the water run over his shoulder and down across the bruising.
He looks at me then. “Leave it.”
“I’m not leaving shit.”
“Caiden, just... I’ll handle it.” The steam makes everything closer, denser; the air is heavy in my lungs. I’m aware of other men moving further down the row, reminding me that this isn’t a private room, but I don’t care.
“You shouldn’t have to,” I say, and I hear the edge in my tone.
“No, but it doesn’t change anything,” he says, instantly pissing me off. That the bit that really gets to me. Not the bruises or the split lip. The quiet acceptance.
He shifts his weight slightly, bracing one hand against the tile wall as if he’s stretching. I can see how his side tightens against the movement, and I see the effort it takes not to wince.
“If you make noise about this,” he says quietly, “it won’t come back on you.
It’ll be on me.” And now I’m livid, because he’s right.
If I go looking for names, if I start asking the kind of questions that make this an official thing, it won’t be me standing under someone else’s fists in a dark room where no one sees anything clearly enough to intervene.
It will be him.
The anger doesn’t fade, but I nod, because that’s the only thing I can do without making this worse for him. He reaches for his towel, steps past me, and for a second, I consider ignoring him entirely, grabbing him by the shoulder, forcing him to tell me who thought they had the right.
But I don’t.
Because that would make it about me.
I step under the spray after he leaves and let the water hit the back of my neck until it stings, but it doesn’t wash the image out. Someone decided Mason was an acceptable target and everyone else decided not to notice.
And the system we’re meant to trust will call that fair.
The rest of the day moves around it as if nothing has happened.
Mason sits where he usually sits at lunch, but this time he’s alone.
He keeps his back to the wall and shifts carefully when he reaches for something across the table.
Not one single person asks if he’s okay.
That fucks me off more than the bruises ever could.
Men I’ve trained beside and trusted under fire, men who would take a round for each other without hesitation, don’t ask why one of their own is moving as if someone’s run him over.
They see it. Of course, they fucking see it.
I’ve defended this kind of environment before and told myself it was efficient and necessary. That you could live inside it as long as you kept your own conduct clean and your loyalties clear.
I’m less certain now.
By Friday, Collins suggests we should go out. I go because not going would be noticeable, and I’m not interested in being noticeable.
The bar is loud enough to drown out thought if you let it. Bodies are packed too close, and Underworld’s “Born Slippy” vibrates through the floor.
I order a drink and lean against the bar, scanning automatically — exits, corners, who’s already drunk enough to make poor decisions. It’s a habit now. The kind you don’t shake just because you’re off duty.
I wonder if Mason is in his room icing his ribs, then I wonder if anyone else is worried about him.
“Caiden?” I turn, and it takes me a second to place her.
There’s the same smile and confidence I recognise.
We slept together a few times before Russia.
It had been uncomplicated, easy even, no promises, and no expectations.
But her name... I search for it and come up with nothing. “Hey, you,” I say, buying myself some time.
“You’re back.” She grins.
“Apparently,” I reply.
She laughs at that, her hand settling lightly on my arm. “You disappeared on me,” she says, stating a fact.
“I was deployed in Russia,” I answer.
She studies me properly then, like she’s assessing damage. “You look different.”
“I’m older,” I say.
“It hasn’t been that long, silly.”
“Russia ages you terribly.” That gets another laugh. I’m deflecting, I know I am. She probably does too.
“Buy me a drink?” she asks. I look at her hand on my arm, and I feel nothing.
I used to be able to lean into this and let the noise swallow me up.
I could let her touch blur things into something easier.
But all I can think about is Mason standing under fluorescent light pretending he’s fine, and about how fast people close ranks when something becomes inconvenient.
And I think about Ari.
“You don’t remember my name, do you?” she says suddenly, amused.
I wince slightly. “I’m trying very hard.”
She laughs again. “Sophie.”
“Of course it is.”
“Of course it is?” she repeats, mock offended.
“It suits you,” I say quickly, because it does, and because I’m not an arsehole.
She tilts her head. “So. Drink?”
“No, sorry.”
She pauses, then searches my face for the joke. She doesn’t find one, of course. “Oh,” she says softly.
“I’m not—” I stop, then try again. “It’s not you.” Christ. I sound like a bad film cliché.
She smiles gently, rescuing me from my own brain. “You’ve met someone.”
“Yeah.”
Sophie nods as if that makes sense. “Well,” she says, stepping back. “That’s inconvenient timing for me.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply. She squeezes my arm once, then disappears back into the crowd and I don’t watch her go. Instead, I stand there, realising I’ve just turned down the version of my life that was safe and meant I didn’t have to think.
The music presses in around me, and one of the lads shouts my name from across the room.
I lift a hand in acknowledgement and then set my drink down half-finished.
As I walk outside, the noise falls away behind me, and the thoughts line up instead of scattering.
I can’t keep building a life inside something I don’t trust and pretend that’s neutral.
I can’t ask Ari to believe in a future with me while I stay comfortably aligned with a structure that would quietly erase him if it became necessary.
On base, I don’t go back to the barracks; I pass them and keep walking. The admin building is dark when I reach it. It’s locked, as always, but I get inside easily anyway.
That part doesn’t require much effort.
The corridors are hauntingly quiet. It’s the kind of quiet that amplifies every sound you make, even when you’re careful. I move the way I always do in places like this. There’s no rush or hesitation; I know exactly what I’m looking for.
The file is where it should be. The phone number takes longer to copy than it normally would because I’m doing it by hand and I don’t want to make a mistake. I fold the paper once and tuck it in my pocket.
The phone box by the fence is cold; the metal bites into my palm when I pick up the receiver. I don’t waste time rehearsing; I assume the line is compromised and dial the number.
It rings once, twice, then I speak when it connects. “It’s Varrik. I need to retrieve something. Can you help?”