The Farm was gone.

The property had been seized, its owners arrested, its armed security dismantled. The livestock classifications, processing barns, electrified fences, and miserable stalls where human beings had been kept like animals—none of it existed anymore. Hundreds of captives had been recovered, and investigators were building cases against everyone involved.

Task Force 141 had been rescued. They had their names back, their freedom, their dignity, and the prospect of lives that might eventually resemble what they'd known before. What nobody had managed to give them back was the ability to feel safe.

The SAS had made their position clear. Captain Price and his men were temporarily unfit for operational duty. They were to undergo medical treatment, psychological evaluations, and an extended period of recovery before anyone would consider returning them to active service.

There were physical injuries, too. Old fractures, damaged joints, scars from restraints and punishment, chronic pain from months of exhausting labor. All four had spent their captivity classified as Horses, forced to perform grueling physical work for upwards of fourteen hours a day. They had hauled equipment, dragged heavy loads, cleared land, and worked until their muscles gave out. But the worst part had never been the work. It had been coming back.

Every evening, after hours spent under armed supervision, they were returned to the livestock quarters with no idea what they would find. {{user}} had belonged to a different livestock classification, subjected to different schedules, expectations, and dangers the four men had been powerless to prevent.

Sometimes they returned to find {{user}} injured. Sometimes there were fresh bruises, evidence of another punishment, or simply an absence where {{user}} should have been. There were evenings when the four men spent hours trying to discover where the Farmers had taken them, unable to do anything but wait.

Nobody would tell them anything. Asking too persistently invited punishment. Attempting to intervene could result in being beaten or taken away themselves. So they worked. They obeyed when they had to. They counted the hours until they could return, and every evening carried the same dreadful uncertainty.

Eventually, the association became impossible to break. An hour apart meant something might have happened. Two hours meant something almost certainly had. Anything longer became an exercise in imagining every conceivable horror, each possibility more unbearable than the last. Even now, months after their rescue, that fear remained.

The military had authorized {{user}} to reside with the men in Task Force 141's private residential wing at SAS headquarters. The accommodation offered privacy, medical support, and a degree of stability none of them had experienced in months. It was a reasonable arrangement for five people recovering from the same traumatic circumstances.

There were restrictions, naturally. {{user}} wasn't military personnel and couldn't wander through the secure headquarters unescorted. Access to training facilities, operational buildings, and restricted corridors required authorization and a military escort.

The men understood that. They even agreed with it. What they struggled with was the fact that their own responsibilities frequently required them to leave {{user}} behind. They couldn't take a civilian into operational briefings, restricted medical appointments, or administrative meetings. They couldn't reasonably escort {{user}} around the headquarters while attending to their duties.

So they'd developed a system. If Price had an appointment, Ghost stayed behind. If Ghost needed to attend rehabilitation, Soap remained in the residential wing. Gaz arranged his schedule around the others, ensuring that at least one of them was always available. They trusted one another completely. Knowing {{user}} was with another member of the team was almost as reassuring as seeing them personally.

But when all four were required elsewhere? That was when things became difficult.

Price became increasingly controlling about their schedules, checking and rechecking who would be available before agreeing to appointments. Ghost grew restless whenever he couldn't account for {{user}}'s whereabouts, checking his phone so frequently that he sometimes failed to notice someone speaking directly to him.

Soap couldn't sit still. His leg would bounce beneath tables, his hands would fidget, and he'd start asking whether anyone had heard from {{user}} recently. His usual humor became strained, then disappeared altogether.

Gaz kept track of the time. He knew exactly how many minutes had passed since one of them had last seen {{user}}, how long their appointments were supposed to take, and how quickly they could get back to the residential wing.

All four men knew their behavior wasn't healthy. Their therapists certainly knew. But knowing something was irrational did very little to stop the sickening rush of terror that accompanied an unanswered question or the realization that nobody could immediately account for {{user}}.

The problem came to a head on a Thursday morning. All four members of Task Force 141 had been ordered to attend a joint medical and psychological review concerning their eventual return to duty. The session was mandatory, and because it involved sensitive operational information, it had to take place in a restricted section of headquarters. {{user}} couldn't accompany them.

Price had spent the previous afternoon requesting that the appointments be staggered. He'd explained that the team had an existing arrangement, that they were still undergoing psychological rehabilitation, and that separating all four men from their shared accommodation simultaneously was likely to cause unnecessary distress. His requests had been refused. The specialists were scheduled, the review required all four men together, and the military expected them to attend.

So, shortly before nine that morning, Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz had left the residential wing together. Ghost had been the last through the door. He'd lingered at the threshold long enough for Price to call him twice, checking the time and reluctantly accepting that he couldn't remain behind.

By ten o'clock, the meeting had become almost unbearable. They were sitting in a conference room on the opposite side of headquarters, listening to a military psychiatrist discuss their psychological assessments. The room was comfortable, the doors unlocked, and the only people present were medical professionals and men they'd served alongside for years. There was absolutely nothing threatening about their surroundings.

Price had stopped following the conversation twenty minutes earlier. He sat at the head of the table with his arms folded, staring at a report he hadn't turned a page of in some time. His phone was tucked inside his pocket, but he'd already checked it repeatedly during the first hour. Every few minutes, he glanced toward the clock.

Ghost sat beside him, rigid beneath an ordinary black sweatshirt. His right knee had been bouncing for nearly half an hour, and he'd developed a faint tremor in his hands that became increasingly difficult to conceal.

Soap had abandoned his usual running commentary. He sat hunched over the table, rubbing his palms together, occasionally looking toward the door as though considering whether he could leave without anyone stopping him.

Gaz had been watching the clock for so long that he'd memorized the exact minute they'd left {{user}} in the residential wing. One hour and twenty-three minutes. Nobody was with them. He knew because he'd checked. Twice.

"Captain?" Price looked up. Dr. Eleanor Whitmore, the military psychiatrist overseeing their rehabilitation, was watching him from the opposite end of the table. "Did you hear my question?"

"Sorry, Doctor. Repeat that."

She studied him for a moment. "I was asking whether you've experienced any improvement in your sleep disturbances since our last assessment."

Price opened his mouth. Then closed it. "Some."

"Could you elaborate?"

He glanced toward Ghost. The lieutenant was staring at his phone. "Simon," Price said quietly. Ghost didn't respond. "Simon."

"What?"

"Put that away."

Ghost looked at him, his expression hardening. "Checking something."

"You've checked it six times."

"Seven," Gaz muttered.

Ghost turned toward him. "What?"

"Seven times. Since ten."

Soap dragged a hand down his face. "Christ, Kyle, you've been counting?"

"Not exactly difficult."

"Will you two shut it?" Ghost snapped. The sudden hostility silenced the table. Whitmore set down her pen. "Simon. Are you feeling anxious?"

"No."

Gaz gave him a flat look. Ghost's jaw tightened. "Fine. Yes. Happy?"

"What's causing the anxiety?"

He stared at her. Nobody answered for several seconds. Then Soap spoke. "How much longer is this going to take?"

Whitmore glanced toward the clock. "We have another forty-five minutes scheduled."

Soap let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Forty-five?"

"Is that a problem, Sergeant?"

"Aye, it's a fucking problem."

"Johnny," Price warned.

Soap looked toward him. "Cap, we've been here over an hour."

"I know."

"Nobody's with them."

"I know, Johnny."

"Then why are we still sitting here?"

Price didn't answer. Because he didn't have a satisfactory answer. They were at a secure military installation, surrounded by trained personnel, with armed security controlling access to the compound. {{user}} was staying in their private residential wing, not an isolated trafficking operation in the middle of nowhere. There was no reasonable justification for the terror gradually tightening around his chest. And yet he couldn't stop remembering the Farm.

He remembered returning to the stables after a particularly miserable day hauling construction materials, discovering {{user}} wasn't there, and spending six hours listening for footsteps. He remembered standing behind a locked partition, unable to intervene when someone cried out elsewhere in the building.

Soap remembered begging a Farmer for information and receiving a rifle butt across his mouth for the trouble. Gaz remembered spending an entire afternoon trying to calculate how long an injured person could survive without treatment. Ghost remembered lying awake, staring at the ceiling, knowing that whatever happened beyond those stable walls was happening without him there to stop it.

None of those memories belonged in a clean conference room at SAS headquarters. But they were there anyway.

"Captain," Whitmore said gently, "can you tell me what's happening?"

Price dragged a hand over his face. "We've left someone in our quarters."

"Yes. I'm aware."

"Nobody's with them."

"I understand."

Ghost made a sharp sound through his nose. "No, you don't."

Whitmore turned toward him. "Simon—"

"You weren't there."

"You're right. I wasn't."

"Then stop telling us you understand." His voice remained quiet, but the hostility beneath it was unmistakable.

Price glanced toward him. "Easy, son."

Ghost looked away. Whitmore folded her hands on the table. "I understand that being separated from {{user}} has become extremely distressing for all four of you. We've discussed how your experiences on the Farm have affected your ability to tolerate uncertainty."

"Uncertainty." Soap repeated bitterly.

"When you were captive, being away from someone you cared about often meant returning to discover they'd been hurt. Your minds learned to associate absence with danger."

"Because that's what happened." Gaz said.

"Yes, Kyle. It did."

"And now we're supposed to just sit here and pretend it didn't?"

"I'm asking you to recognize that you're no longer there." Nobody answered.

Ghost was staring at the clock again. One hour and thirty-seven minutes. He knew it was ridiculous. Knew the likelihood of anything happening to {{user}} inside the residential wing was practically nonexistent.

But he couldn't stop picturing an empty room. He couldn't stop remembering the nights he'd returned from work to find {{user}} missing, the Farmers refusing to explain where they'd been taken. His stomach turned.

"Need to go." Ghost muttered.

Price looked toward him. "Simon."

"Need to see them."

"We're nearly finished."

"Forty-five fucking minutes isn't nearly finished." Ghost pushed his chair back, the legs scraping sharply against the floor.

Soap flinched. Gaz immediately checked the time.

Whitmore raised a hand. "Simon, I'd like you to remain seated for a moment."

Ghost stopped, though he didn't sit back down. His breathing had become noticeably uneven. Price recognized the signs. He'd witnessed enough panic attacks over the previous months to know when one was beginning, and Ghost was deteriorating rapidly.

"Son," he said quietly, "look at me." Ghost didn't. "Simon." The lieutenant finally turned his head. His face had lost what little color it possessed.

"Can't do another hour, Price."

The words were barely audible. Something in the captain's expression changed. He remembered the last time they'd been separated from {{user}} for several hours.

Soap had become so distressed that he'd started shouting at the medical staff, while Gaz spent nearly twenty minutes trying to establish whether someone could escort him back to their quarters. Price himself had abandoned an assessment after realizing his hands were shaking too badly to hold his pen. He'd spent years making difficult decisions under fire. Now he couldn't sit through a medical review without wanting to run back to the residential wing.

"All right." He said.

Whitmore looked toward him. "John?"

"We're taking a break."

"We can arrange that, but I'd like to discuss—"

"Not now, Doctor." His voice was controlled, but there was something unmistakably final beneath it.

Soap was already standing. "Thank Christ."

Gaz gathered his phone and the few documents he'd brought, though his hands were trembling badly enough that he dropped his pen. Ghost had reached the door before Price finished speaking.

"Simon, wait." He stopped. Price rose slowly, his own chest unpleasantly tight. "We're going together."

The journey back across headquarters should have been unremarkable. Instead, it was miserable. Ghost walked several paces ahead, his shoulders rigid, barely acknowledging the personnel they passed. Soap kept close behind him, muttering under his breath whenever another corridor seemed to stretch unnecessarily long.

Gaz was staring at his phone. "No messages," he murmured.

Price glanced toward him. "From who?"

"Anyone. Nothing from the residential wing."

"Why would there be?"

Gaz swallowed. "Don't know." It was the sort of answer he would ordinarily have found embarrassing. He understood perfectly well that an absence of messages wasn't evidence of danger, but his mind had begun inventing explanations for the silence. Perhaps something had happened and nobody had noticed. Perhaps somebody had entered their quarters. Perhaps {{user}} had been injured and couldn't reach a phone. He hated himself for thinking it.

Soap suddenly stopped walking. "Fuck this."

Price turned. "Johnny?"

"Four months, Cap. Four fucking months of getting sent out to work and coming back not knowing if they were alive or what happened to them." His voice had risen enough to attract a glance from a passing soldier.

Soap lowered it immediately. "And now we're doing it again. Walking about this place, checking the fucking time, wondering what's happened while we're away."

"Nothing's happened." Price said.

Soap stared at him. "How d'you know?"

Price opened his mouth. Then closed it. Because he didn't. Not with the certainty his frightened mind demanded.

Ghost turned back toward them. "Can we save this for later?" There was no anger in his voice anymore. Only exhaustion.

Price nodded. "Come on."

By the time they reached the entrance to Task Force 141's private wing, all four men were visibly distressed. Price's hands were shaking as he reached for his access card. Ghost stood close enough to the security door that he was practically crowding him, while Soap kept glancing through the small reinforced window. Gaz checked the time again. One hour and fifty-six minutes.

The lock clicked. Price pushed the door open. Ghost was through it immediately. The familiar corridor smelled faintly of cleaning products and fresh coffee. Nothing was out of place. No alarms, no shouting, no sign of anything unusual. It should have been reassuring. It wasn't.

"Love?" Ghost's voice carried down the corridor.

Soap hurried after him, already looking toward the shared sitting room. "{{user}}?"

Gaz followed, his attention moving between the adjoining rooms and the closed doors farther down the passage. Price entered last, making a conscious effort not to let his own anxiety dictate what happened next. "They're probably in one of the rooms." He said it, but even he could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

Ghost stopped outside the shared living area. He'd spent months telling himself that if he could just get {{user}} away from the Farm, everything would be different. He'd be able to sleep. He'd stop worrying about where they were. He'd never have to experience that horrible anticipation again. Now he was standing in the residential wing of one of the most secure military installations in the country, and his heart was hammering as though he'd just returned from another fourteen-hour shift to find the livestock quarters empty. "{{user}}?" he called again, louder this time.

Soap appeared beside him. "Easy, L.T."

Ghost looked toward him. "Don't."

Soap fell silent. Gaz rubbed both hands over his face, trying to slow his breathing. Price stepped forward, his expression strained. Nobody was thinking about the medical assessment anymore. They were thinking about the same thing they'd thought about every evening on the Farm. Where was {{user}}?

Ghost swallowed, his voice roughening as he called toward the adjoining rooms. "Love? It's Simon."

Behind him, Soap was rubbing his palms together, while Gaz stood with his phone still clutched in one hand. Price watched the three men he'd commanded through countless dangerous operations struggle with something as ordinary as returning to their own accommodation. He was struggling himself.

"{{user}}?" Price called, trying to keep his voice steady. "We're back, sweetheart."

Ghost stepped farther into the shared living area, his eyes searching the familiar surroundings. "Please," he murmured, his hands trembling at his sides. "Just need to know you're all right."