Being awakened by someone pounding on your hidden bunker door was never a good thing.

  Good morning, Chaos said, far too cheerful.

  I flipped him off as I grabbed my gun from beside the bed and stomped toward the door.

  Why is he so grumpy? Dragoon asked.

  Human morning ritual, Chaos chuckled.

  Great.

  I got my feelings back for this crap?

  The pounding paused—then resumed.

  Steady.

  Deliberate.

  Not magic.

  Not a dragon.

  Human.

  “Go away!” I shouted.

  They hadn’t blasted the door yet.

  Good sign.

  “General Carter sent me!”

  The voice… sounded weirdly familiar.

  “So? Who the hell is General Carter?” I yelled back.

  Carter… Carter…

  Nope. Nothing.

  The only Carter I remembered had been a screw-up private with potential—and a spectacular lack of respect for authority.

  “This would be easier if we weren’t shouting through a door!”

  Chaos, your call.

  Open it, Chaos said, amused. Ask if he brought coffee. You need it.

  “Bastard,” I muttered.

  Then—louder—“Stand back!”

  My thoughts were everywhere.

  Mornings sucked.

  Magic sucked.

  Life sucked.

  Opening the barricade was a hell of a lot easier than it usually was.

  Dragoon practically preened.

  Your strength increased! he announced proudly.

  “You two were easier when I had emotional repression,” I grumbled, opening the door with my gun raised.

  And froze.

  The man outside was someone I never expected to see again.

  Paul Mitchell.

  Still tall.

  Still broad-shouldered.

  Still with those dancing amber eyes—

  only now he smelled like wolf.

  Great.

  More enhanced idiots.

  He wasn’t even looking at me when the door opened.

  “It’s about time,” he said, turning back. “Damian told Carter it would be hard—”

  He stopped.

  Stared.

  “Lt. Hale…” he breathed.

  Then blinked hard.

  “But—I’m supposed to find a Carl Vicars.”

  Isn’t this fun? Chaos purred.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Inside, kid. There might still be a pissed-off dragon-shifter around.”

  Paul stepped in out of pure habit—military muscle memory—still staring.

  “But… you weren’t a shifter before,” he said weakly.

  “Yep. That changed.”

  I held out my hand.

  “Also, I don’t go by Jonathan Hale anymore. Carl Vicars. Hermit.”

  Paul just stared.

  “…what the actual hell happened to you?”

  He paused, slipped off his backpack, and unzipped it as I closed and bolted the door.

  “And why did Damian say to bring this?”

  He pulled out a camp-stove percolator.

  And a canister of coffee.

  I blinked.

  “I… actually don’t have any in my stockpile,” I muttered, cheeks heating.

  “I haven’t had coffee since the ambush.”

  His jaw dropped.

  I sighed, walked past him, and plucked the percolator and coffee out of his hands.

  “You used to drink, like, three pots a day, sir!” he sputtered, trailing after me.

  I set the percolator carefully on the table.

  “Oh. Yeah. I did, didn’t I?” I said, looking at him.

  He just gawked.

  “What do you mean oh yeah, I did, didn’t I?!”

  His backpack hit the floor with a heavy thud.

  I filled the percolator with water from the tank, moving on autopilot.

  Paul watched me like he was trying to solve a murder case with only two clues and a headache.

  The propane stove hissed to life.

  Metal warmed.

  The percolator began its slow, familiar bubble.

  And then—

  the smell hit me.

  Rich.

  Dark.

  Sharp.

  Home.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  Chaos went still.

  Dragoon whispered, ‘Oh… that’s nice.’

  My chest tightened so hard it hurt.

  Memories—messy, loud, human memories—rose up like steam from the percolator.

  Morning briefings.

  Maps.

  Laughter.

  Arguments.

  Paperwork.

  Three pots a day.

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  Kathy stealing my mug.

  Men looking to me for orders.

  The smell of coffee had been my heartbeat.

  I swallowed hard and turned away, gripping the counter until my knuckles bleached white.

  “You okay?” Paul asked softly.

  “No,” I said honestly.

  “No, I am not.”

  The percolator hissed and spat.

  Steam unfurled through the bunker like a ghost of the man I used to be.

  I poured a cup.

  Hands shaking.

  Sat down.

  Lifted it to my lips.

  First sip—

  and something clicked in my skull.

  A door opening.

  A window slamming up.

  A light turning on.

  Thoughts sharpened.

  Breath steadied.

  Focus narrowed and widened at the same time.

  Chaos let out a startled laugh.

  ‘Oh, there he is.’

  Dragoon wagged his nonexistent tail.

  ‘I like this version of you!’

  Paul stared as if I had just grown a second head.

  “…Sir?” he whispered.

  I blinked.

  Looked up.

  And—for the first time in years—my posture shifted.

  Back straightened.

  Breathing fell into old military rhythm.

  Eyes met his without flinching.

  Carl Vicars was still here.

  But Lieutenant Jonathan Hale stepped into the room too.

  Paul’s mouth trembled.

  He sank onto the nearest crate like his legs had given out.

  “…I thought you died,” he said hoarsely.

  “We all thought you died. There wasn’t even a body. They said Hale went down with the men. That he—”

  His voice cracked.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face.

  “Sir, we mourned you.”

  I stared at him, cup halfway to my mouth.

  “…I mourned me too,” I said quietly.

  Paul’s eyes glistened.

  He let out a shuddering breath.

  “We named a training wing after you,” he said.

  “Carter… Carter damn near broke when they told us you were gone.”

  Something inside my chest lurched.

  Kathy had named me Carl.

  She had built me a new life from the ashes.

  But my old one had waited for me too.

  I set the cup down with a soft clink.

  “Well,” I rasped, my voice rough.

  “I guess that makes this awkward.”

  Paul laughed—wet, raw, disbelieving.

  “You’re still you,” he said.

  “Just… quieter.”

  “I’m working on that,” I muttered.

  Chaos hummed proudly.

  First step: caffeine.

  Dragoon agreed enthusiastically.

  Next step: therapy!

  “Shut up,” I whispered into my coffee.

  Paul watched me, his eyes softening.

  “Welcome back, sir.”

  I didn’t look at him.

  Didn’t trust my voice.

  But I nodded.

  Once.

  Mitchell blinked—

  then his jaw dropped open.

  “Jack is your son?!”

  …

  Yeah.

  This was about to get awkward.

  “Yup.”

  Mitchell doubled over laughing.

  Not the reaction I expected.

  “Carter is going to shit himself,” Paul barked out between wheezes.

  This whole General Carter thing was starting to get on my nerves.

  “Who is General Carter?” I snapped. “You act like I should know.”

  That made him laugh harder—

  full-body shaking, gasping-for-air harder.

  Are you entertained at least? I asked Chaos.

  Very, he purred.

  By the time Mitchell finally pulled himself together, I’d finished my first cup of coffee.

  He wiped tears from his eyes.

  “Remember Private Andrew Carter?”

  “Reckless, hated authority, collected Article 15s like candy,” I said with a nod.

  Mitchell broke down laughing again.

  I waited.

  Patiently.

  The way one waits for a storm to pass.

  Eventually he managed, grinning ear to ear,

  “He built his entire military persona on you.”

  I blinked.

  Mitchell continued, “I made general too—but not like him. He’s practically a legend.”

  “That,” I muttered into my cup,

  “cannot be healthy for his personality.”

  Chaos wheezed.

  Dragoon snorted sparks.

  Paul laughed even harder.

  “What?!” I poured myself another cup of coffee.

  “Jack is just like Carter was as a private,” Mitchell said, grinning.

  I groaned.

  “Did he try digging a latrine with explosives?”

  “Twice,” Mitchell said proudly. “From what I’m told.”

  Of course.

  Like father, like son.

  “Carter only did it once.”

  Mitchell blinked.

  I held up three fingers.

  “You what?!” he choked.

  “It was boring!” I snapped.

  Can we get explosives? Dragoon asked eagerly.

  “No, you stupid dragon!”

  I paused.

  Glanced at Mitchell.

  “…That was out loud, wasn’t it?”

  Mitchell’s grin widened.

  “Oh yeah. You’re really new at this, aren’t you?”

  Could I still make him drop and do push-ups?

  He’s a wolf shifter, Chaos said. Probably the best one to explain things to you. And he likes you.

  That didn’t make opening up any easier.

  I stared down into the metal camp mug of coffee, heat brushing my fingers.

  “Sorry,” Mitchell said gently. “If it’s a sore subject.”

  “I literally got my feelings and everything else back yesterday,” I whispered.

  Mitchell blinked, then leaned forward.

  “What happened to the lieutenant who’d yell at us one minute and have our backs the next?”

  I kept my eyes on the coffee, watching steam curl upward.

  “The man you remember…” I swallowed.

  “He didn’t make it out.”

  Mitchell froze.

  I shook my head before he could ask anything else.

  “That’s all I can give you right now,” I said quietly. “It’s… a long story. A bad one.”

  My fingers tightened around the mug.

  “I’m still putting myself back together. So don’t push it. Not yet.”

  He watched me for a long moment, then nodded as I took another sip of coffee.

  “How did you find me?” I asked.

  He gave a small smile—the kind that said he knew I was redirecting, and he was letting me.

  “We were talking with Jack about a group of rogue shifters taking over the abandoned robot epicenters,” he said. “We need someone to help lead a team to stop them. Jack contacted Damian and… yeah. He suggested you.”

  “Me?” I blinked. “I haven’t left this property since before Jack was born. And I only met Damian in a dream.”

  “It’s the only way he can communicate—he’s cursed to stay on an island,” Mitchell said. “He told us you were the one we needed. And that we should bring coffee supplies.”

  Of course he did.

  “But how did you get here?” I demanded. The rain should’ve washed away every scent trail. Even the military only knew my cabin’s location through Jack—not the bunker.

  Mitchell shrugged. “He’s the Guardian of Magic. Teleportation isn’t hard for him.”

  I went very still.

  Lead a group.

  Jack suggested me.

  Damian’s dream island.

  Teleportation.

  Too many things at once.

  Too fast.

  Too loud.

  My hand tightened around the mug until the metal creaked.

  “I… can’t lead anyone.”

  Flat. Too flat.

  Mitchell frowned. “Carl—”

  “No.” I forced the word out. “I don’t— I’m not—”

  The rest jammed in my throat.

  Breathe, Chaos murmured.

  I couldn’t.

  “Jack thinks you can,” Mitchell said gently.

  That made it worse.

  My chest tightened.

  My vision tunneled.

  “I haven’t stepped off this land in twenty-six years,” I whispered. “I barely function outside a bunker.”

  The walls pressed closer.

  Heat suffocated the air.

  “That’s why we need you,” Mitchell said softly. “You survived the impossible.”

  I shook my head hard.

  Too much. Too fast. Too everything.

  “Stop,” I rasped. “Just—stop talking for a minute.”

  Something slammed into the bunker door.

  Metal shrieked and reverberated through the walls.

  A roar followed—deep, inhuman.

  Mitchell shot to his feet, eyes wide.

  “What the hell?!”

  My body moved before my mind caught up.

  Reflexes I thought were dead snapped awake.

  I grabbed Mitchell by the arm and yanked him back.

  “Move!”

  “But what—”

  “I said move, soldier!”

  That tone did it. Mitchell obeyed on pure instinct.

  My human is scary, Dragoon purred, far too delighted.

  No time for their mental nonsense.

  Claws scraped against metal somewhere along the bunker wall.

  The back wall was dirt, with a row of old metal cabinets shoved up against it.

  Mitchell opened his mouth—questions already forming—and my glare shut him up instantly.

  I yanked one of the cabinets open and shoved him inside.

  “Lt—what the—” he gasped.

  “It’s Carl,” I snapped, squeezing in after him and slamming the cabinet door shut.

  The back of the cabinet looked like solid metal.

  It wasn’t.

  A bottle of scent-killer sat on the floor exactly where I’d left it years ago.

  I kicked it upright, flung the false panel open, and shoved Mitchell into the narrow tunnel beyond.

  He stumbled, swore, then scrambled forward.

  I followed, spraying scent-killer over everything we touched—walls, floor, boots, hands. Feverishly. Methodically.

  Once we were both inside, I sealed the metal panel, locked it, and sprayed again.

  Then I turned.

  Mitchell was just standing there, staring at me.

  “Did I say stop moving?” I barked. “A bunker door is child’s play to a Chinese fire dragon, private!”

  He winced—

  then took off down the tunnel like he was twenty again.

  General or not, if he was going to act like an idiot private, he was getting treated like one.

  You’re having fun, Chaos chuckled.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t put cosmic forces on latrine duty.

  The tunnel sloped downward, just enough that our boots slid on packed earth. The walls were narrow—shoulder-brushing narrow—and reinforced with old planks I’d scavenged years ago. Each one creaked faintly as we passed.

  I chewed my lip without thinking.

  Too many memories lived in these walls.

  Mitchell stayed silent, probably recognizing the tone I’d snapped into. Combat silence. Move-and-shut-up silence.

  Dirt brushed my knuckles with every step. The air was stale, tinged with the metallic bite of scent-killer. My heart hammered—not from the run, but from the realization forming in the back of my skull.

  A faint draft cooled the sweat on the back of my neck as the tunnel widened.

  This tunnel only had one exit.

  Only one place it could lead.

  My throat tightened.

  We rounded the final bend, and the faint outline of the exit panel came into view.

  And beyond that—

  Trees.

  Woods.

  Not my woods.

  The boundary stone lay just a few feet beyond the door, half-buried under moss and time.

  I stopped dead.

  Mitchell nearly ran into me.

  “Carl?”

  I stared at the exit. At the property line. At the world I hadn’t stepped into in twenty-six years.

  My palms went slick. My pulse spiked.

  Leaving the bunker was one thing.

  Leaving the land was another.

  My cage had bars—and suddenly I was standing at the open door.

  Breathe, Chaos murmured.

  Let me out, Dragoon rumbled.

  I swallowed hard.

  The tunnel I’d built to keep myself safe…

  was about to force me into the one thing I feared most.

  Leaving.

  Roars of rage and shattering metal echoed behind us.

  The tunnel exit was right there.

  Freedom.

  Or danger.

  Hard to tell.

  I glanced at Mitchell.

  His nostrils flared. His pupils blew wide.

  He wasn’t looking at me anymore—he was listening to something deeper. Older.

  Oh.

  Right.

  Wolf shifter.

  A heartbeat later, his form shimmered. Bones reshaped, fur swept out in a dark wave—and a massive dire wolf stood where the man had been.

  No warning. No hesitation.

  He stepped into my space and leaned his weight against my hip and shoulder, solid and warm.

  My breath stuttered.

  My hand moved on instinct—fingers sinking into thick fur—and the world narrowed to the rise and fall of his body.

  Stroke.

  Breathe.

  Stroke.

  Breathe.

  The panic didn’t vanish…

  but it loosened its chokehold.

  Just enough for me to think again.

  I kept one hand buried in Mitchell’s fur as we moved toward the exit, the sounds of an enraged dragon throwing a full-body temper tantrum echoing through the tunnel behind us.

  My hand still shook as I pushed the door open and sunlight spilled in.

  I licked my lips, stroking Mitchell’s fur for grounding.

  “You know I’m gonna find this really bizarre later, right?” I muttered.

  He chuffed and leaned harder into me.

  Aww… he’s such a cute puppy, Dragoon cooed.

  I thanked every power in existence that no one but me could hear that.

  Chaos groaned in the back of my mind—the cosmic equivalent of a facepalm.

  Mitchell nudged me forward, and I sighed as I stepped out into the daylight.

  What backs up on your land? Chaos asked.

  “I forget,” I admitted. “Couple acres of vacant forest.”

  I stood there, trying to steady my breathing.

  The sunlight felt wrong. Too open.

  I stalled by dragging the false hillside door back into place, making sure it blended perfectly with the dirt and brush.

  Yeah. Paranoid.

  But it had kept me alive this long.

  I turned and faced the trail leading away from the bunker bolt-hole.