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

They drank until dawn painted thin gold lines across the penthouse windows. Laughter, clinking glasses, stories of operations gone wrong and miraculous escapes—they poured it all out into the early hours, emptying their souls alongside their champagne flutes.

For the first time in years, they felt human.

But peace, even fleeting, was never built to last for soldiers like them.

At exactly 0600 hours, a roar ripped through the penthouse suite.

"GET YOUR ASSES UP NOW!"

Hayes's voice thundered like a drill sergeant on steroids, shaking the men and woman sprawled across couches and carpets. Rook groaned, clutching a champagne bottle like a teddy bear. Cody jolted awake, his laptop sliding off his chest as he blinked owlishly through sleep-fogged eyes.

Marcuz rubbed his temples, his dark hair a mess. "God damn it, Bravo," he rasped, voice husky. "Turn off your Marine mode for once."

Noah sat up instantly, already awake and silently cleaning his sidearm with disciplined efficiency. Maya cursed under her breath, shielding her eyes from the rising sun peeking between blackout curtains.

Lee Chan was the only one who didn't flinch. He had been awake for the past hour, cross-legged by the window, sipping silent black tea while the city rumbled to life far below.

"Move it!" Bravo barked, slamming his palm against the steel column in the center of the room. "Captain's orders!"

That single phrase was all it took.

Boots scrambled against plush carpet. Pillows and half-eaten fruit platters were tossed aside. They straightened themselves as if preparing for a roll call, instinct overriding the indulgence of comfort.

Aaron San Agustin stood near the dining table, leaning casually against it with a mug of steaming coffee in hand. His black shirt clung to his lean frame, sleeves rolled to reveal thick corded forearms and faint surgical bandages peeking beneath his wrist.

A small smile curled across his lips as his gaze swept his team.

"How's your night?" he asked lightly, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

"Best sleep in years, boss," Ghost muttered, pushing his glasses up his nose. "No rats, no screaming insurgents, no IEDs outside the door. Five-star heaven."

Rook yawned so wide his jaw cracked. "I don't even remember falling asleep. One second I was chugging whiskey, next second I'm hugging Hawk's leg like a pillow."

Hawk kicked him lightly. "And you drool in your sleep, Killer. You owe me new jeans."

Reaper only grunted, running calloused fingers over his scalp before crossing his arms over his broad chest. Specter sipped his tea in silence. Doc tied her hair into a neat ponytail, eyes sharp and alert despite her flushed cheeks.

Aaron took another sip of his coffee, savoring the rich bitterness before placing it down with a faint clink.

"Alright," he said, his voice firm but warm. "Today's plan."

They straightened unconsciously, backs stiffening under his gaze.

"Look at yourselves," he said, gesturing to their wrinkled shirts and bare feet. "You look like rugged mercenaries dragged out of a sub-Saharan outpost."

"We are rugged mercenaries dragged out of a sub-Saharan outpost," Ghost quipped under his breath.

Aaron ignored him, his grin widening. "We're heading out."

"Where to, boss?" Bravo asked, stepping forward.

"Shopping."

Silence.

Then Rook burst out laughing so hard he nearly fell over. "Shopping? You serious? Us? You want to take a bunch of ex-black ops killers to go buy… what, Gucci slippers?"

Aaron chuckled. "No slippers for you, Killer. But yes, shopping. New clothes. New identities. New lives. We can't walk into boardrooms and government offices looking like we just crawled out of Kandahar."

Hawk whistled low. "Boardrooms? You thinking corporate infiltration ops again?"

Aaron shook his head, eyes gleaming with quiet determination. "No. I'm thinking empire building."

Reaper's lips curved into a small, rare smile. "Shopping it is then."

Bravo clapped his hands together, the thunderous sound snapping Rook and Ghost out of their snickers. "You heard him. Gear up. You have five minutes to be ready. Killer, brush your teeth before you gas us out in the elevator."

"Sir, yes sir," Rook saluted dramatically before shuffling towards the bathroom, flipping Hawk off when he chuckled behind him.

Doc walked up to Aaron, searching his face with gentle concern. "How's your wound?"

"Better," he said softly. "Healing fast. Still sore."

"Don't push it too hard today."

He smiled faintly, grateful for her silent care. "Don't worry, Doc. Today's not about me. It's about us."

Specter approached, sliding his sniper kit into his tactical duffel. "Will we be armed?"

"Always," Aaron said. "But keep it discreet."

Ghost snorted. "I'll just hack everyone's credit history if they disrespect me at Louis Vuitton."

"Don't," Aaron replied calmly. "Let them underestimate you. Always better that way."

Minutes later, they assembled at the penthouse door, bags slung over shoulders, eyes clearer despite the hangovers. The elevator opened silently before them, revealing mirrored walls and golden handrails.

As they stepped inside, Aaron glanced back once at the sprawling penthouse suite. The place still smelled faintly of aged bourbon, gun oil, and burnt Cuban cigars—a signature scent of warriors who had been granted one night to live like kings.

"Remember," he said softly, his voice echoing against marble and glass as the doors closed. "We may have left the battlefield… but the war never left us."

The doors slid shut with a hushed finality, carrying them down towards a city waiting to witness the rise of its new legends.

And in Aaron's heart, resolve pulsed like silent thunder. Because today was only the beginning—and soon, the entire world would learn what it meant to awaken sleeping wolves.