I used to measure time in missions—extractions, evacs, kill counts. Now it’s in how many hours I can stare at the ceiling before the silence gets too loud. The pension’s generous, the apartment’s clean, and my heart’s ticking just fine. But sometimes I miss being used. Not just in bed—though god, I miss that too—having a purpose, a body against mine, sweat and orders and something to fight for. Now the only thing I fight is the urge to text someone and beg them to come ruin my sheets. Loneliness is a quiet mission with no extraction point.