The afternoon sun pressed down on the stretch of beach like a warm, insistent hand. Price had chosen his position with the same care he applied to selecting an overwatch position: elevated enough to see the water, close enough to the resort path that he could spot anyone coming, and angled so the sun didn't sit directly in his eyes. He had moved the lounger three times before settling on the exact right configuration. Kai had watched all three adjustments from his spot on the sand, stretched out on his back with his tail curled along the edge of a faded beach towel. He had not offered to help. He had not commented. He had simply watched.

Price sat forward on the lounger, a bottle of sunscreen in one hand and his hat resting on one knee. He'd already kicked his sandals off into the sand. He worked the sunscreen into his forearms with short, efficient strokes, then moved to the back of his neck. There was no wasted motion. No languid holiday indulgence. It looked less like beach preparation and more like equipment maintenance.

He recapped the bottle and tossed it in {{user}}'s direction without looking, a soft underhand lob that landed in the sand beside them with a faint thump. "Can you get my back for me?"

Kai made a small sound from his spot. It might have been a yawn. It might have been a laugh. His tail twitched once in the sand, sweeping a crescent into the loose grains.

"That's a lot of surface area," Kai said. His voice was low and dry, shot through with the kind of deadpan calm that could derail a conversation if you let it. "You might need another bottle."

"Shut up," Price said. He was already leaning forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. The muscles in his shoulders shifted under the thin fabric of his shirt as he made room for {{user}} to work.

Kai did not shut up. Instead, he settled deeper into the sand, one arm folding behind his head. The fur on his chest and stomach shifted with a slow exhale. "SPF 50. Sensible. I assumed you'd use motor oil and a folded sun reflector."

"It's called bein' prepared," Price said, without turning around. "Something you've not heard of, apparently."

"I'm covered in fur," Kai said. "I prepare differently."

"You've got a nose that'll burn to hell and you know it."

Kai's ears swiveled forward. One pale-blue eye cracked open, not toward Price, but toward {{user}}. There was a glint of amusement in it, lazy and sharp at once. "Make sure you get the bits where the hair's gone thin. He won't admit it, but he's patchy."

Price's head turned just enough to cast a look over his shoulder. It wasn't a warning. It was the calm, measuring look of a man who was deciding whether to let something slide or file it away for retribution. "You're on thin ice, Private."

"What's he going to do," Kai said to {{user}}, conversational. "Make me run hills? We're on a beach."

"Dawn PT," Price said. "You and me. Sand sprints. Then a swim. Then more sprints."

Kai snorted. "That's not punishment. That's a Tuesday."

"I'll make it a very long Tuesday."

The resort's communal grilling area sat on a broad wooden deck overlooking the water, half-shaded by salt-bleached canvas stretched over iron frames. Late afternoon sun threw long, amber stripes across the deck. The air smelled like charred fat, garlic, and someone else's overly sweet barbecue sauce. A few other guests milled around the neighboring grills, their conversations blurring with the hiss of grease hitting coals.

Rhek had claimed their station early. Every tool was laid out in a neat line. Tongs, basting brush, spatula, a folded cloth. The skewers sat in orderly rows on a steel tray, separated by type. Chicken, peppers, onion. A second tray held thick-cut ribeyes, seasoned with salt, black pepper, and an undisclosed seasoning Rhek insists is a family secret. The placement of each skewer had been considered. The coals had been arranged for indirect heat.

Ghost arrived like a shift change.

He said nothing when he stepped up beside the grill, heavy boots quiet on the sun-warmed planks. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, the pale, scars of his forearms drawing a few uneasy glances from nearby guests. A pair of worn cargo shorts. No mask. Since arriving at the resort, Ghost had kept mostly to himself, and when he did appear, he moved like someone casing the perimeter. Now he stood at Rhek's shoulder, studying the grill with the flat, clinical intensity of a man who'd just discovered a tactical problem.

Rhek leaned over and turned a skewer. The motion was deliberate. Territorial.

"Evening," he said.

Ghost grunted.

For a moment, it looked like Ghost might simply observe. Then he reached past Rhek and moved the pepper skewers four inches to the left.

Rhek's head came up slowly.

"The coals are hotter there." Ghost's voice was low and matter-of-fact. "You've got them on the cool side."

"The coals are fine."

"They're uneven. You built the bed too low on the right."

Rhek set the tongs down with a small, precise click. "I built the bed to hold heat without flaring. The peppers are fine where they are."

Ghost reached over and nudged a chicken skewer further from the center. "That one's scorching. You basted too early. The sugar's going to burn."

Rhek lifted the basting brush, examined it, and tapped it once against the side of the tray. "That's a marinade, not a glaze. It renders."

"Marinade still burns if the heat's too direct."

"Which is why the coals are banked to the left."

The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder, neither willing to move. Ghost folded his arms across his chest. The movement made the muscles in his forearms bunch. "You're going to dry out the steak."

Rhek didn't look at him. "You're going to back away from my grill."

"Is that an order, Sergeant?"

Rhek's ears, already pointed from the heat, drew back a fraction. A long pause. "It's a request from a man who doesn't want your help."

Ghost made a soft noise. It might have been amusement. It might have been dismissal. He picked up the tongs before Rhek could reclaim them and flipped a steak with a single, practiced motion. The meat sizzled, fat spitting as it hit the coals.

Rhek's eyes tracked the movement, his tail twitching once before he stilled it. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but the low register had deepened.

"Put the tongs down, Lieutenant. Last warning."

Ghost didn't put them down. He used them to rotate the onion skewers, then scraped a clear line through the coals with the tip, redistributing the embers with the economy of someone who'd done this a thousand times. "Your vent's half closed. Trapping smoke. Steaks are going to taste like soot."

Rhek turned his head. A deep breath expanded his broad chest. The canvas awning overhead shifted in the breeze. For a long moment, the only sound was the sputter of grease and the distant cry of gulls.

"{{user}}." Rhek's amber-gold eyes landed on the only neutral party present. "He's dismantled my fire twice. I need you to taste the peppers before he ruins them entirely."

Ghost's mouth twitched beneath the coarse, greying scruff of his beard. "Don't listen to him. He'll feed you charred pepper and call it texture."

The midday heat had turned the beach volleyball court into a convection oven, the sand pale and loose, kicked into hazy clouds that hung in the still air. Soap stood at the net, shirtless, his skin flushed along the back of his neck and shoulders where the sun had been working on him. Sweat tracked through the dusting of chest hair and gathered at the waistband of his shorts. He had the ball tucked under one arm and the kind of expression usually reserved for a man who had just caught someone cheating at cards.

"That was over the line," he said, pointing at Jax with the full extension of one arm. "That was over the line, and ye know it."

Jax stood on the other side of the net, both hands raised in mock surrender, his grin showing every tooth. The tufts on his ears twitched once, and his tail swayed behind him in a slow, deliberate arc. "Technically, the line belongs to both sides. That's the whole point of a line."

"Don't you start with technically. I'm no' daft."

"You said it, not me."

Soap bounced the ball once, hard, into the sand. Then again. He was not smiling, but there was something bright in his eyes, the edge of genuine competition worn thin over the top of a joke. "Right. Right. New rule: nae more 'technically'. Nae more usin' yer tail as a bloody distraction. And nae more—"

"Ref," Jax interrupted, turning toward {{user}} with an expression of pure, theatrical innocence. "Ref, I'm bein' harassed. Is that legal?"

Soap spun on {{user}} too. "You saw it. Tell him it was out."

The game had started an hour ago as a warm-up. Then Soap had accused Jax of a foot fault. Jax had denied it. Soap had challenged him to a rally. Jax had accepted. Now they were locked into something far more competitive than the resort's half-buried court justified, and {{user}} had been positioned in a sagging folding chair, resigned to their fate.

Jax tossed the ball up and over. "Call it, ref."

"Don't call it yet—" Soap started.

Jax served before {{user}} could open their mouth. The ball cracked off his palm and curled flat over the net, fast and low. Soap dropped into a crouch and dug it off his forearms with a grunt. Sand sprayed. The ball arced up. Soap tracked it, shifted, then punched it over the net with a two-handed set that he absolutely should not have attempted.

The ball came back, and Soap answered, and for a while there was no sound but the slap of the ball, the quick thud of paws and bare feet in the sand, and the occasional burst of shouted Scots. Soap's accent thickened the longer the game went on.

"Ah'm on it! 'Mon then, get it up, get it up—"

"Relax, I've been up since six."

"Stop talkin' tae me and hit the bloody ball!"

Jax leapt, twisted, and spiked it. The ball hit the back corner with a sharp puff of sand. Soap stood with his hands on his hips, breathing hard, his chest heaving. Neither of them looked at whether it was in. They both looked at {{user}}.

"In," Jax said.

"Out," Soap said.

They turned to each other. Jax flicked his tail. Soap swatted at the air where it had been.

"Yer arse is lucky I'm no' keepin' score proper," Soap said, jabbing a finger toward Jax. "Because if I was, you'd be goin' home in a bin bag."

"I'd like to see that bin bag. You couldn't even put that last one over without grunting like a walrus."

"I'll walrus you in a minute—"

"Ref!" Jax howled, spinning toward {{user}} again, both hands to his chest. "Threats against a demihuman. Official complaint. Book him."

Soap swung on {{user}} next, his expression bright with frantic, mock-legal outrage. "Book him for bein' a fanny. He's been cheatin' since the first serve."

"You can't book me for having a tail."

"I can if yer usin' it like a windmill!"

"You're just mad because it's more coordinated than you."

The trivia night was in full swing inside the resort's open-air pavilion. Warm string lights crisscrossed overhead, their soft glow mixing with the dim blue of a flat-screen TV mounted near the bar. Every table had a numbered card and a tiny pencil. The host, a sunburned man in a loud floral shirt, had the kind of over-caffeinated energy that made Gaz's right eye twitch.

"Moving on to round four!" The host's voice boomed through the crackling speakers. "Category: British Royal Family Weddings, 1980 to present."

Gaz dropped his forehead onto the table.

Orion's ears flattened so hard they nearly disappeared into his cream-colored fur. He slid their answer sheet across the table like it was a casualty tag. "Who planned this event?"

"Someone who hates us," Gaz said, voice muffled against the wood. "We're being punished for something. I don't know what yet, but it's coming."

"Maybe it's retribution for the grill incident," Orion said quietly, glancing toward the next table. "The universe is balancing the scales."

The neighboring table was a collection of five retired school teachers. They hadn't just been winning. They had been rhythmic about it. Perfect answers in tidy block letters. They made quiet little hmm sounds before answering, like the questions were only worth a polite fraction of their attention. The woman in the center, silver-haired with reading glasses on a chain, looked like she had once stared down a classroom of teenage delinquents and never lost a single battle.

"She's judging us," Gaz said.

"I think she's just breathing," Orion countered, but he still folded his arms a little tighter, and his huge ears swiveled toward the other group, catching the tail end of one husband's confident murmur.

"Margaret's got it," Jax offered from the table behind them, where he and Kai had been watching the entire disaster unfold with the glee of men who had bet on the outcome and were winning.

Kai's pale blue eyes glinted over the rim of his drink. "Some of us study culture. Others run through doors."

Gaz didn't dignify that. He sat up, rubbed the back of his neck, and turned to {{user}} with the expression of a man who'd reached the end of his tactical patience. "Right. New approach. You're up." He slid the pencil across the table. "Fresh eyes. Fresh brain. We've been at this for an hour and we've got five points. Five. We got the Beyoncé question right, and that's the only one I'm counting as a moral victory."

"We also got the banana question," Orion added.

"That was a guess. And I don't trust anyone who knows that much about bananas." Gaz looked at {{user}} again, then tapped the answer sheet. "Category's royal weddings. I know you couldn't care less about the monarchy, but between the three of us, we've got to scrape something."

Across the table, the leader of the teacher's table turned over her answer sheet with a satisfied air. The host collected it, gave the room an exaggerated wink, and called out, "Table six is still undefeated, folks."

Orion made a sound in his throat, a soft, frustrated whine that didn't fit a combat medic. "I refuse to finish behind a table that brought their own fountain pen."

Gaz shifted in his chair so he was fully facing {{user}}. "Listen. There's no shame in this. I'll handle the sports and geography. Orion takes the weird medical and science stuff. But this... this is culture." He gestured vaguely at the room. "And right now, we need a third man in the fight. What do you know?"

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