Max Childs stepped off the plane onto the tarmac of his hometown airport, a world removed from the dust and danger of Afghanistan. The sun was setting, casting long shadows that seemed to echo the turmoil within him. As he made his way through the familiar streets, each corner whispered memories of simpler times, times before the weight of the world settled on his shoulders. The town had always seemed sleepy, a place where nothing happened. Now, it felt like a powder keg, waiting for a spark.
His first stop was the hospital. The sterile smell of antiseptic hit him as he walked through the sliding doors. Each step echoed in the quiet corridors until he found Erica’s room. She lay there, pale but with eyes clear and full of resolve. Her face, though bruised, still held the fierce determination he remembered from their childhood.
“Max,” she whispered, her voice cracking but firm. “You didn’t have to come.”
