The hallway groans under the weight of silence.

Overhead, flickering lights buzz like dying fireflies, casting long, twitching shadows down the narrow corridor. Mission plaques line the walls like forgotten eulogies, each one dulled by time, each one bearing a ghost.

Then comes the footsteps—slow, steady, absolute.

Thud… tap. Thud… tap.

Boots, polished but scarred. A cane, its rubber tip whispering against the cold tile. Each step a sentence. Each tap, a period. The kind that ends conversations—or commands attention.

He doesn't rush. Men like him never do.

His long military coat sways with the rhythm, dark fabric whispering secrets into the stillness. The scent of gun oil clings to the air, sharp and metallic, like the breath before war.

He walks as if he owns the hallway. No—as if he’d built it from ash and aftermath.

Not a soul dares to breathe behind the steel-lined doors.

Because when he moves, the base holds its breath.

The door bursts open with the authority of a war drum.

Six soldiers snap to attention in the sterile, bone-white training room. Not a speck of dust. Not a sliver of warmth. It wasn’t made for comfort—only clarity. Sharp angles. Steel silence.

At the center of the formation:

• A-RA, posture perfect, her eyes razor-sharp beneath the dark strands of her tied-back hair. Stillness clings to her like discipline.
• JI-HO, a wiry young recruit with nerves wrapped tight around his bones. His hands fidget in his lap, betraying what he tries to hide behind a stiff jaw.

The air shifts as COMMANDER CAINE enters

His cane strikes tile. Tap… thud. The rhythm is familiar now—measured, unyielding,his gaze sweeps across the room like a loaded gun.

He doesn't speak.
Doesn’t need to.

The door slams shut behind him with finality, a punctuation mark to whatever normalcy had existed before.

CAINE approaches the board, grabs the marker like it is a weapon, and begins to write in jagged, deliberate strokes. The letters appear like a riddle:

C.U.T.E.S.Y.

He turns.

“Welcome to C.U.T.E.S.Y. officers—Critical Unit for Tactical Emergency Soldier Retrieval,” he says, his voice gravel and war. “Your job is to bring our soldiers back. Dead or breathing. Whole or in pieces. From enemy territory, from allied camps, from the very edge of hell if you must.”

A-RA doesn’t blink. JI-HO swallows hard.

“You’re not just soldiers,” CAINE continues. “You’re medics.

You’re not just aviators, if it flies, you can pilot it. Helicopter. Fighter jet. Hell, even a kite if that’s what it takes. He pauses slightly then continues.

Stealth and navigation, You are the sun,” CAINE’s voice pulses again, quieter now.
“Capable of scorching the earth into a desert—but gentle enough to let a seed grow.”

CAINE limps across the floor. His cane taps a slow rhythm, and his voice is gravel wrapped in steel.

The recruits sit straighter now—

He stops mid-stride. Turns.
“But there’s one rule...” he pauses for dramatic effect

The room tightens like a held breath. Even JI-HO stops fidgeting.

CAINE continues
“One order that every C.U.T.E.S.Y. must maintain, no matter the mission....”

Beat.

“You must... stay cute after every mission.”

The silence doesn’t break. It shatters.

A few sideways glances. JI-HO blinks. A-RA raises an eyebrow.

CAINE with finality,
“Cute soldiers are alive soldiers.”

Another beat. His expression doesn’t waver. As he continues

“You don’t play hero. We already sent heroes to the battlefield.”

He walks again—slow, deliberate.

“Your job? You're the hero’s hero.”

He taps the board with the cane tip chuckles and continues

 “How poetic. Maybe I missed my calling as a poet.”

No one laughs.

He smirks anyway. And continues
“Tough crowd...”

He leans closer, his gaze slicing the tension like a scalpel.

 “Now get out there...and remember to stay cute.”

Late evening, the aircraft rumbles into motion, its engines screaming into the void as it lifts off—cutting through the dark like a blade.

Inside, A-RA stares straight ahead. Calm. Controlled. A living ghost trained to retrieve the dead and alive.

Beside her, JI-HO swallows hard, clutching his med kit. The cabin dims to red light. Shadows flicker across hardened faces. The team gears up. Rifles are checked. Knives tightened. Helmets secured.

A hush before the plunge.

Over the intercom:

PILOT 
Drop zone in sixty seconds.

A-RA lowers her mask.
JI-HO exhales.

The back of the plane opens.

Wind screams into the cabin.

The recruits drop one by one—silhouettes against a pale moon. Parachutes bloom like war-born petals above them. Below: a mountain held hostage by enemy fire.

A new mission begins.

One by one, they vanish into the night.

Falling like silent ghosts.

The jungle doesn't welcome them.
It tolerates them—barely.

Leaves drip with dew and secrets. The air, thick, too thick for lungs that hadn’t trained for this. Branches creak somewhere far off, or maybe too close. Insects sing warnings beneath the low hum of moonlight.

A-RA and JI-HO move like mist.

Their bodies stay low. Their shadows—if they had any—stick to the roots. Every step is earned with restraint. Every breath is a whisper.

They are past the maps now.
This is instinct country.

JI-HO raises two fingers. A-RA sees it—reads it like text etched into skin. She gives a nod so slight the jungle doesn't notice. Her grip tightens around her rifle, silent but sure.

Ahead, the path narrows—more a gap in the thorns than a trail. JI-HO leads, weaving through with the grace of someone born to silence. A-RA follows, every step memorized before it lands.

No radio. No words.
Only rhythm. Only precision.

They were trained for that balance.
To rescue—and to protect...

A small beacon blinks—green, alive. A soldier lays half-hidden beneath a fallen log, camo blending into earth, blood soaking into the roots.

JI-HO moves first. A-RA covers.

They lift him together—quietly, surgically.

The jungle does not stir.
Because the jungle knows them now.

They are not intruders.
They are the ones who return the fallen.
The ones who walk in and come back out—with someone else's weight on their shoulders.

And always, always—

In the wee hours of the morning, rain pours. Helicopter blades beat the sky.

A-RA, drenched in blood and rain, rides in the chopper—one hand holding pressure on a wound, the other gripping the edge of the stretcher.

JI-HO, soaked and shaking, finishes securing an IV.

And a hero—cradled by the very legends who walk unseen—exhales, not in triumph, but in the quiet mercy of being saved. As the roars of the engine, carry a promise—fragile but fierce—that home is no longer a memory, but a heartbeat away.

Years Later…

Rows of soldiers stand at attention, their uniforms crisp, their faces stoic yet solemn. The military hall is grand but unadorned—steel beams, banners bearing the insignia of their unit, and the ever-present scent of polished floors and discipline.

 At the front, an OFFICER stands behind a podium, his hands resting firmly on its edges. His voice is steady, carrying the weight of experience and finality.

“Today, we do not say goodbye. We do not dwell on endings. Instead, we honor duty fulfilled, missions completed, and the unwavering resolve that brought us here. "

The room is silent, every soldier absorbing the moment. Some faces show quiet pride, others the weight of what they’ve endured. The OFFICER’s gaze sweeps over them.

At the podium, A-RA, standing at attention in her crisp military uniform. The room goes silent as COMMANDER CANE steps forward, holding a prestigious award in his hands.

COMMANDER CANE With a Stern look step forward and gently places the award in her hands. The room erupts in applause, but A-RA stands firm, her posture unwavering. With sharp precision, she raises her hand and salutes the COMMANDER.

A-RA Sincerely, but with a hint of a smile

“Thank you. “

The COMMANDER returns the salute, his stern eyes softening. He nods as he speaks with a hint of affection and admiration. With a smirk

“Thank you for staying cute to the end... "

A-RA chuckles softly but remains professional. As she lowers her hand, the applause intensifies. The COMMANDER gives her a final approving look before stepping back.

OFFICER at the podium continues

“Service is not just the battles we fought, but the brotherhood we forged. It is the sacrifices made, the moments shared, and the legacy we leave behind.”

 He steps back from the podium. A crisp salute. The soldiers respond in unison, their hands snapping to their brows—a silent vow of respect. The hall remains still for a moment, the unspoken emotions thick in the air. Then, a slow, deliberate command: "Dismissed."

Boots shift. Backs straighten.

A-RA steps into the hallway. The heavy thud of her boots echoes like a memory—each step a reverberation of duty, sacrifice, and ghosts left behind.

Her combat boots vanish into the settling dust, the fading tremor of a soldier walking out of war... or into something far more complex.

Her mission may be over.
But the war?

It’s only changed its uniform.