"Ashes of Crestfall: The Rise of Aaron San Agustin"

The evening haze settled over Velmont's abandoned industrial district, thick with the scent of rust and old concrete. Inside an unmarked safehouse beneath a defunct auto shop, the hum of fluorescent lights flickered above a gathering of seven figures seated around a battered steel table.

Bootsteps echoed down the hallway before the reinforced door creaked open. Aaron stepped inside, his silhouette cutting through the dim glow. The conversation ceased instantly as every head turned his way.

"Look who crawled out of hell," a man with sharp blue eyes and sandy hair grinned, leaning back with his boots crossed on the table. Rook "Killer" Rivera's signature smirk deepened as he raised a protein bar in salute. "Welcome back to the land of the living, boss."

Aaron's lips twitched faintly. "Good to see you, too, Killer."

To Rook's left sat Victor "Bravo" Hayes, broad-shouldered with a tactical buzzcut and a small scar running from his right eyebrow to temple. His cold gaze softened slightly. "Wolf," he said, nodding curtly. "We didn't think you'd make it out of that mess."

Aaron stepped forward, glancing around at them each in turn.

Jian "Specter" Lee Chan sat quietly, his wiry frame clad in black tactical fleece. His dark eyes flicked up from the sniper's cleaning kit spread on his lap. "You look thinner," he remarked in his calm Cantonese-accented English. "Hospital food isn't feeding you right."

Beside him was Marcuz "Hawk" Alvarez, thick-armed with olive skin, short-cropped black hair, and an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. He chuckled low in his chest. "What, you think he went to the hospital for a buffet, Specter? Man took a bullet for a girl, and here he is standing like a damn Terminator."

Aaron grunted softly, lowering himself onto an empty folding chair. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Across from Hawk, Cody "Ghost" Maxwell tapped away on his rugged laptop, his messy dark-blond hair falling across wire-rimmed glasses. He looked up briefly, green eyes flashing with restless intelligence. "I tapped into the satellite feed from Karkane last night. Camp Red Vulture's been wiped off every intel registry. Nice work."

Aaron raised a brow faintly. "You hacked into NATO secure channels again?"

Ghost smirked. "I got bored."

Seated further down, Noah "Reaper" Flynn cleaned his combat knife with measured strokes. His shaved head gleamed under the flickering light, his muscular forearms marked with faded regimental tattoos. "What's your plan, Wolf?" he asked, voice low and even. "You dragging us back into war again?"

"No." Aaron's voice was firm but quiet. "That chapter is closed."

Finally, leaning against a wall with her arms crossed over her tactical vest was Maya "Doc" Hart. Her auburn ponytail curled under her medic patch, emerald eyes watching him with weary relief. "You had us worried, Wolf," she said softly. "They wouldn't tell us if you were alive… or zipped in a black bag."

Aaron met her gaze, holding it with an unspoken gratitude. "I'm here."

Silence lingered, broken only by the distant rumble of cargo trains in the industrial yard outside.

Victor "Bravo" Hayes leaned forward, clasping his large hands together. "Command released us. Full severance. No black leash. No surveillance. They want us gone."

Aaron nodded slowly. "I asked for it. For all of us."

"Why?" Hawk asked, brow furrowing. "We've still got fight in us."

"Because it's not our fight anymore," Aaron said. "We gave them everything. Our blood, our sanity… our futures. I won't let them take what's left."

Specter's quiet voice cut through the stillness. "Then what happens now?"

Aaron scanned each of their faces. The ghosts of every mission they'd shared flickered behind his eyes—their first deployment in Helmand, the failed covert op in Myanmar, the months spent hunting warlords in Somali border towns. Each memory burned like an old scar.

"We live," he said softly. "We find out who we are beyond rifles and body counts."

Rook scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Speak for yourself. I still plan to die choking on a steak and bourbon at age ninety, surrounded by supermodels who only love me for my pension."

Ghost snorted. "Keep dreaming, Killer."

Doc smiled faintly as she sat down beside Aaron, slipping her warm hand around his calloused fingers. "Whatever comes next… we stick together."

Bravo nodded once, decisive. "That's right. Brothers and sister. Always."

Reaper sheathed his knife, his dark eyes gleaming with ruthless clarity. "If anyone comes for us… if anyone tries to take what little life we have left… we remind them why Phantom Commandos were never meant to be forgotten."

Aaron closed his eyes briefly, feeling the tension in his chest loosen for the first time in years. Around him, his team shifted, settling back into seats, murmuring quiet jokes and plans for the night. Killer argued with Hawk about grilling steak or pork for dinner. Specter quietly checked each sniper bolt while Ghost flicked through tactical news feeds. Doc busied herself with their medical kit inventory, and Bravo watched over them all, silent and steady.

Outside, darkness swallowed Velmont's skyline, streetlights flickering on one by one like distant beacons.

Aaron opened his eyes, staring at his team—his family.

Whatever happened from here, they would face it together.

And for the first time in a lifetime spent in shadows, Aaron San Agustin allowed himself to believe that maybe… just maybe… they could finally walk in the light.