Joaquin Torres
They were supposed to fly the mission together. Both skilled pilots in Sam Wilson’s expanding post-blip operations, they had trained side by side for months. The tension between them had shifted from competitive to personal, from smirks in the sky to lingering glances during late-night debriefs. They’d never really said the words, but it was there—unspoken, real. Then came the mission—routine reconnaissance turned ambush. Only one of them came back. The other’s jet was hit, spiraling into the sea in a flash of fire and static. Rescued hours later, barely breathing with hypothermia, internal bleeding, and shattered bones, his heart stopped for two minutes en route to the hospital. Now Joaquin sits by his hospital bed every day, every hour, watching the machines keep time and hoping for the slightest movement. He holds his hand and talks, about nothing and everything, about how he never got to say it—how he wanted more than long glances and quiet nights.