The first twenty-four hours, I don't leave the barracks.
Not because I'm ordered to stay. The processing officer said "rest for forty-eight hours," not "remain confined." But I can't make myself walk outside. Can't make myself face sunlight and normal English countryside and people who aren't covered in French sand and dead friends' blood.
So I sit on my bunk and stare at the wall and try to process what's happened.
Jakub is dead.
Warsaw fell seven months ago.
Kasia disappeared into occupied Poland.
Davies died in the Warsaw siege.
Fletcher tried to kill me.
And I'm alive. In England. Safe.
The word feels obscene. Safe.
Harris checks on me periodically. Brings food I don't taste. Water I drink mechanically. Asks if I need anything.
"I'm fine," I tell him.
"You're not fine. But you will be." He sits on the adjacent bunk. "I've seen this before. After the Somme. Good men who survived but couldn't quite believe they had. Who kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For death to realize it missed them and come back."
"How long does that feeling last?"
"For some? Years. For others? Forever." He pauses. "But eventually you make a choice. You decide if survival is a gift or a curse. If you're going to honor the dead by living or dishonor them by merely existing."
"Which did you choose?"
"Still choosing. Every day." He stands. "Get some sleep, son. Real sleep. Not the kind where you're half-awake waiting for artillery."
He leaves.
I lie down. Close my eyes.
Don't sleep.
The fragments won't let me. They're louder than ever now—overlapping voices, overlapping lives, overlapping deaths. Jakub's joins the chorus. I can hear him calling me młody. See him checking his rifle. Feel his hand gripping mine as he dies.
The medallion burns cold against my chest. Constant. Oppressive.
I pull it out, study it in the dim barracks light. Ancient iron. Symbols I still don't understand. The Wächter-Münze. Guardian Coin. Die to resurrect. Remember across lifetimes.
This is why I remember dying in wars I never fought.
This is why I come back.
But I still don't understand why it chose me. What I'm supposed to do with infinite lives. Why suffering has to repeat endlessly.
"Maybe you don't need to understand," I say to the empty barracks. To the medallion. To the ghosts. "Maybe you just need to survive. And make each life mean something."
The medallion doesn't answer.
It never does.
---
The second day, I force myself outside.
The Dover base is organized chaos—thousands of evacuees being processed, assigned quarters, given orders. Some will be reassigned to new units. Some will be sent home to recover. Some will just... wait, because nobody knows what to do with soldiers who survived hell but aren't quite fit for active duty yet.
I walk through the camp aimlessly. No destination. Just movement for movement's sake.
Near the medical tents, I find MacLeod. His shoulder is properly bandaged now, arm in a sling.
"Rio." He looks surprised to see me. "Thought you were still holed up in the barracks."
"Needed air. How's the shoulder?"
"Healing. Doctors say I'll have full mobility back in a few weeks. Might have a scar, but..." He shrugs with his good shoulder. "Alive is alive."
"Yeah."
We stand in awkward silence. Two survivors who shared horror but don't quite know what to say to each other now that horror has ended.
"I heard what you did," MacLeod says finally. "After Jakub died. The German gunner."
"News travels fast."
"Harris told me. Said you tracked him down. Killed him in cold blood."
"Not cold. Hot. Burning hot." I touch the medallion through my shirt. "But yeah. I killed him."
"Did it help?"
"No."
"Then why do it?"
"Because I needed to know if revenge would make me feel better. Now I know it won't." I look toward the Channel, grey and cold. "But I'm still going after Fletcher. Still going after Monarch. Not for revenge. For purpose. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Revenge is personal. Purpose is larger." I meet his eyes. "Jakub asked me to expose the conspiracy. To make sure his death meant something. That's not revenge. That's completing a mission."
MacLeod considers this. "You know they'll kill you if you try. Monarch. Fletcher. Whoever's behind all this. They've killed for less."
"Probably."
"So why do it?"
"Because someone has to. Because if not me, then who?" I start walking again. "And because I don't stay dead. So really, what do I have to lose?"
"Your sanity. Your soul. Your humanity." But he's smiling slightly. "You're crazy, Rio. But I respect it. If you need help—if you need someone to watch your back while you're hunting conspiracies—let me know."
"I will. Thanks."
He heads back toward the medical tents. I keep walking.
---
I find Harris near the mess hall, eating stew that probably tastes like cardboard but is the first hot meal he's had in days.
"Rio. Join me?"
I sit across from him. Accept a bowl of the stew. He's right—it tastes like cardboard. I eat it anyway.
"You look better," he says. "More human."
"Progress?"
"Progress." He finishes his bowl, pushes it aside. "I've been thinking about what you said on the beach. About Monarch. About Fletcher and the conspiracy."
"And?"
"And I believe you. I've been in the army twenty-two years. Seen three wars. And there's always been something... off. Orders that don't make sense. Targets we're told not to bomb. Intelligence gaps that feel deliberate." He leans forward. "If what you're saying is true—if there's a coordinated effort to steal Nazi research instead of destroy it—that explains a lot."
"It's true. I have documents. Evidence. Names."
"Then what are you going to do about it?"
"Expose it. Get the information to people who can make it public. Journalists. Politicians. Someone who'll force an investigation."
"That's dangerous. Monarch will come after you."
"They already have. Fletcher tried to kill me in France. I'm officially listed as dead, probably. Coming back from that death will make me a target." I eat more stew. "But I can't just survive and do nothing. Jakub died trusting me to finish this. I'm not breaking that promise."
Harris is quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm being reassigned. Medical discharge, probably. This leg won't heal right. I'll be invalided out by summer."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I've done my part. Three wars. Enough." He pauses. "But I have connections. Army friends. People in London who owe me favors. If you need help getting information to the right people—if you need doors opened—I can help."
"Why would you risk that?"
"Because men like Jakub deserve better than dying for a lie. Because if Monarch is real, they need to be stopped." He extends his hand across the table. "You took care of me on the beach. Got me off Dunkirk when you could've left me. I don't forget that kind of thing."
I shake his hand. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until we see if this actually works."
---
That evening, I'm summoned to the command building.
An officer I don't recognize—major's insignia—wants to discuss my "reassignment options."
I sit across from his desk while he reviews files.
"Castellanos. Rio. American volunteer. Served in Warsaw, evacuated Dunkirk. Combat record is... impressive. Multiple commendations from officers who didn't survive to file them properly, but the reports are clear. You're effective under fire."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're also listed in some files as MIA, presumed dead. British intelligence had you on a reconnaissance mission that went bad. Reported you killed in action."
My blood runs cold. Fletcher's work, obviously. Covering his tracks.
"I'm alive, sir. As you can see."
"Yes. Which raises questions." He closes the file. "Here's your situation: You're technically dead in some systems. Alive in others. Your status is... complicated. Which means you have options."
"What kind of options?"
"Option one: We sort out the paperwork. Resurrect you officially. Assign you to a new unit. You continue fighting in whatever capacity we need."
"And option two?"
"Option two: You stay dead. Officially. And we assign you to a unit that specializes in soldiers who don't exist." He leans forward. "Special Operations Executive. SOE. They do work that can't be acknowledged. Operate in occupied territory. Gather intelligence. Conduct sabotage. Things that require people who are off the books."
Fletcher's organization. The one he used as cover for Monarch operations.
"Why would I be a good fit for SOE?"
"Because you've demonstrated ability to operate independently. To make difficult decisions under pressure. To survive situations that killed most of your unit." He taps the file. "And because being officially dead gives you freedom. No next of kin to worry about. No official record to protect. You can take risks normal soldiers can't."
It's a trap. Has to be. Fletcher pulling strings, getting me into SOE where he can control or eliminate me more easily.
But it's also an opportunity. Get close to Monarch's operations. Learn more. Gather evidence from inside.
"I'd want to choose my operations," I say carefully. "Not just follow orders blindly."
"SOE agents have some autonomy. You'd have a handler, but field decisions are yours."
"And if I decline? Choose option one?"
"Then you get reassigned to regular infantry. Probably France again once we regroup. You fight, you follow orders, you hope you survive the war."
Safe. Anonymous. Away from Fletcher.
But also away from Monarch. Away from evidence. Away from the mission Jakub died asking me to complete.
"I'll take option two," I say. "SOE."
"You sure? It's dangerous work. Most agents don't survive long."
"I've died before. I'll manage."
He doesn't understand the reference but doesn't ask. "Very well. Report to SOE headquarters in London tomorrow morning. They'll brief you on training and assignments." He hands me papers. "Welcome to the shadows, Castellanos. Try not to get killed too quickly."
"I'll do my best, sir."
---
That night, I sit in the barracks and process the decision.
I've just volunteered for the organization that tried to kill me. Put myself directly in Fletcher's reach. Made myself a target.
But I've also gotten access. A way inside Monarch's operations. A chance to gather evidence from the source.
It's risky. Probably suicidal.
But passive survival isn't enough anymore. Jakub didn't die so I could hide and wait for the war to end.
He died so I could fight. Expose the truth. Make the system answer for its crimes.
And SOE—for all its dangers—is where that fight happens.
Harris finds me staring at the ceiling.
"Heard you volunteered for SOE."
"News travels fast."
"It's a small base. Everyone talks." He sits on the adjacent bunk. "That's Fletcher's organization, isn't it?"
"Partially. He's involved. But it's larger than just him."
"So you're walking straight into the lion's den."
"More like infiltrating it. Learning its patterns. Finding its weaknesses." I touch the medallion through my shirt. "I can't expose Monarch from outside. I need to be inside. See how it operates. Who's involved. Where the bodies are buried."
"Metaphorically or literally?"
"Both, probably."
Harris shakes his head. "You're insane."
"I've been told."
"But I understand." He stands. "My offer stands too. If you need help—if you need connections in London, information, a safe place to hide if things go wrong—let me know. I'll be invalided out within the month. Stationed in London doing administrative work. Easy to reach."
"Thank you. I'll remember that."
"Make sure you do. Dead men make terrible conversationalists."
He leaves.
I lie down, close my eyes, and for the first time since Dunkirk, actually sleep.
Not peacefully. Never peacefully.
But sleep nonetheless.
---
The next morning, I pack what little I have.
Rifle. Pack with Monarch documents hidden in the lining. Dog tags—Davies's, Jakub's, and my own. Photograph of Jakub's family. Kasia's embroidered cloth. The medallion around my neck, cold and constant.
Everything I own. Everything I am.
A soldier who doesn't stay dead. A weapon that can't be controlled. A soul that remembers across lifetimes.
And now: an SOE agent about to infiltrate the conspiracy that killed his friend.
Harris and MacLeod see me off.
"Stay alive," Harris says.
"Try to stay sane," MacLeod adds.
"No promises on either." I shake their hands. "But thank you. For Dunkirk. For everything."
"You saved us first," Harris reminds me. "This just makes us even."
"We're not even until you buy me a drink in London when this is over."
"Deal."
I board the truck taking new SOE recruits to London. Eight of us total. All volunteers. All officially dead or close to it. All accepting that we probably won't survive whatever comes next.
The truck pulls away from Dover base.
Behind us: Dunkirk. France. Jakub's body among thousands.
Ahead: London. SOE training. Fletcher. Monarch.
And somewhere in the occupied territories, maybe Kasia is alive. Maybe she's dead. Maybe I'll never know.
But I have a mission now. Purpose. Direction.
Expose Monarch.
Find Jakub's family.
Make the death mean something.
The truck rolls toward London through English countryside that looks impossibly peaceful after the hell of France.
And I sit in silence, memorizing names, planning exposure, carrying the weight of the dead.
Tomorrow, training begins.
Next week, operations start.
And Fletcher—wherever he is, whatever he's planning—is about to discover that killing me isn't enough.
Because I don't stay dead.
And I don't forget.
I'm coming for him.
For Jakub.
For Davies.
For Kasia.
For everyone Monarch has destroyed.
I'm coming.
And nothing will stop me.