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“Congratulations, Wing Commander Falisai Bakalov. You’ve been promoted to civilian.”

The grinning Group Captain looked quite pleased with his little joke, peering over a sheet of paper at Fali. After a brief pause for dramatic effect, he continued,
“Don’t worry, you’re a popular one. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

He chuckled, shifting his head just enough to reveal the poster behind him: a bold, stylized 8, with a pretty girl sporting fairy wings hovering within it - her modesty preserved only by the silhouette of a fighter jet and the middle cross of the 8.

“I feel like I’m supposed to give a speech or something,” Fali muttered.

The office was dim, its shuttered window letting in just enough light to give shape to the dust hanging in the air. A simple desk sat at its center, with a padded chair behind it. If Fali turned, he knew he’d find the usual bookshelf by the door - both painted the same sterile, military white. A single light fixture buzzed faintly overhead, fighting against the gloom.

He couldn’t keep the scowl off his face as the Group Captain went on.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure working with you, Fali. You’ve done a lot for our little Eighth Squadron, not to mention the publicity.”

He waved his hand dismissively, sliding the paper back into a stack and leafing through the next one.
“Sorry I can’t say more. I’ve got a lot of people to see today. I wish you luck with whatever you decide to do next.”

He raised an eyebrow.
“And I daresay I won’t be surprised if you get into showbiz with those looks. You’re a natural catwalker.”

Fali didn’t respond. He just lifted his arm in a crisp salute, turned on his heel, and left the room.

The hallway outside was lined with posters and news clippings. Farther down, an entire board was dedicated to him - Eighth Squadron’s Airborne Hero. At first, it had made him proud. Now he hated it.

He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. Everything he had - everything - taken away just like that. It was easy for the Group Captain to say he’d be fine. The man hadn’t lived his whole life at war. Fali had.

He’d joined the front seven years ago, but the war had started when he was fourteen. The world had known nothing else since. He’d been educated in war, raised by it, defined by it. And now, somehow, he was supposed to become a civilian?

His nails bit into his palms as he quickened his pace. He wanted to hit something.

No, he thought. Not yet. Not until I’ve said goodbye.

He turned sharply down a quieter corridor, moving so fast a clerk nearly dropped her clipboard as he stormed past. A heavy door loomed ahead, leading to the apron. He pushed through it as if it weighed nothing at all. The wind struck him instantly, tearing at his clothes and almost wrenching his cap away. Years of instinct had his arm snapping up to catch it before it could fly off.

His fingers brushed the patch stitched onto the green fabric - the same emblem that hung behind the Group Captain’s desk. He traced its raised edges gently, like a familiar scar, before heading toward the nearest hangar.

The steel structure arched high above, its vast interior echoing with silence. Two jets sat within, both painted in olive drab. His eyes lingered on their sleek airframes - the glass canopies, the swept-back wings, the triangular intakes at the roots. A tall tail rose proudly behind them, the hand-painted squadron insignia bold against the metal.

But it was the jet on the left that drew him closer.

Under its cockpit, a painting of a woman knelt gracefully, her arms drawn back, her figure proud yet serene. Above her, written in looping script, was the name: Freyla.

Fali stepped forward and rested a hand on the aircraft’s nose. The motion came naturally, as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

Everything he had was right there beneath his palm - every memory, every victory, every scar and loss. The jet had been his world.

He lowered his forehead to the cold aluminum, eyes stinging in a way they hadn’t for years. The aircraft said nothing, patient and still, as his mind wrestled with what came next.

The base gates - massive, bomb-resistant structures of reinforced steel - seemed to tremble under the weight of the reporters crowding outside. Fali’s heart began to race as he walked toward them. He hated them. Every single one.

They’d never left him alone - not during the war, and not now, when he no longer served any purpose.

The air force must’ve known there’d be trouble. They’d assigned him an escort: four soldiers, rifles slung across their chests, safeties on but magazines loaded. Somehow, they looked more nervous than he did.

The cries of the reporters reached him even before he got close.

“What are your thoughts on how the war ended?”
“What will you do with your life now?”
“What was your best sortie?”

The stuttering flashes of cameras felt like machine-gun fire. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, his cap fluttering in the wind.

And suddenly - he wasn’t walking toward the gates anymore.

He was back in Freyla’s cockpit.

The targeting radar chattered excitedly as the enemy fighter filled his gunsight. The other pilot, panicking, tried to break away, but the tone in his headset rose to a shrill confirmation. Missile lock.

Flares burst from the enemy’s belly, flaring white-hot in his vision.

Wrong move.

Fali rolled his aircraft, nose down, and squeezed the trigger. The four twenty-millimeter cannons thundered as the world around him vanished in a storm of recoil and fire.

A hand clamped his shoulder.

“Hey! You alright?”

The voice snapped him back to the present. The gates loomed ahead again, and the smell of hot concrete replaced the stench of burning fuel.

Fali blinked hard, nodded once. The soldier was already barking orders.
“Call a car or something. We’re never getting through that mess alive.”

Another soldier fumbled for his phone as they turned back toward the base, the line of trees flanking the road like silent runway lights guiding them home.

Behind them, the reporters still shouted, every question striking like shrapnel.

“Do you have any regrets from your service?”
“What will you do with your status as the country’s airborne hero?”
“Will you attend the private veterans’ concert next month?”

That last one made him pause.

Private.

No reporters. No cameras. Just him - and others who might actually understand.

He filed the thought away, resisting the urge to cover the back of his head as the shouts followed him down the road.