Music thumped through the crowded bar, neon lights pulsing against walls lined with empty bottles and half-forgotten graffiti. Paige Anthony leaned across the sticky counter, her dark waves spilling forward as she shouted over the bass.

“Another round!” She grinned, waving a manicure hand at the bartender.

The man frowned. “You sure? That's your third.”

“Third tonight,” She corrected with a mischievous wink. “Not third ever.”

Her friends roared with laughter.

“Paige, you're ridiculous,” Mercy giggled, slapping the counter.

A guy in a faded band T-shirt leaned over from the next stool, eyes amused. “You always laugh that loud?”

“Always,” Paige said, flashing him a grin. “Scares the boring people away.”

Her friends cheered at that, banging glasses on the counter. Paige joined them, her goofy cackle carrying over the music. She was twenty-one, beautiful in the careless way of someone who knew how to own a room. Slim, curvy, glowing under the fluorescent lights, she lived for nights like this… music, drinks, and the thrill of forgetting the outside world.

The outside world meant responsibility and responsibility had never sat well with Paige. Missed classes, late rent, and disapproving calls from her mother—all easily drowned in another shot glass. I'll get it together tomorrow, she thought, as she always did.

But even in her haze, one thought tugged at her.

Joe.

Her brother had always been the opposite: steady, grounded, the pride of the Anthony family. He had gone into the Sub-Military for his two year service without complaint, ready to prove himself. She teased him for being a “state poster boy,” but secretly, she admired his discipline.

Tonight, though, she couldn't shake the silence. Usually, Joe called at least once a week, cracking jokes about training or telling her to lay off the tequila. It has been almost a month now. Her texts went unanswered. Calls, straight to voicemail.

“You okay?” Mercy asked, leaning close, her lipstick smudged from laughter. “You've gone quiet.”

Paige forced a smile. “Just thinking about my brother. He's been… busy.”

Busy or gone? A voice whispered in her head. She downed the rest of her drink before it could get louder.

The unease grew as she left the bar later, her heels clicking against the pavement. The city was alive around her; vendors Hawking roasted corn, couples arguing in hushed tones, the occasional patrol car gliding past. Paige pulled her jacket tighter, the chill gnawing at her. Why hasn't he called?

When she got home, the apartment was quiet, too quiet. She kicked her shoes off and collapsed on the couch, scrolling through her phone.still nothing.

Then her phone buzzed. Unknown number.

She frowned and swiped. “Hello?”

“Is this Paige Anthony?”

The voice was clipped, official. Her stomach dropped. “Yes. Who's asking?”

“This is Sub-Military Command. We regret to inform you that your brother Joseph Anthony, and his assigned unit are currently unaccounted for. Their last transmission was intercepted near the Northern border. Details are classified.”

Paige froze, phone pressed to her ear. “Unaccounted for? What does that mean?”

“It means we are conducting a search. You will be notified if there is any development. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Her knees gave away, and she slid to the floor, staring at the dark screen of her phone. Joe. Missing. Classified.

Her chest heaved, but no tears came. Just a sharp, rising fire. She thought of Joe's easy smile, the way he used to tuck her hair behind her ears when she cried. She thought of her mother, who would break when she heard the news. And she thought of the Sub-Military, the faceless officers who thought a curt phone call would be enough.

Paige clenched her fists. For the first time, the wild party girl felt the weight of something larger than herself.

If they wouldn't find Joe, she would.

The decision hit her like a punch. By the time dawn crept through her blinds, Paige was tearing through her small apartment, yanking clothes from drawers, tossing them onto the bed in messy piles.

A duffel bag sat open, swallowing her life in fragments: sneakers, hoodies, the only pair of boots that didn’t kill her feet. She shoved in toiletries, a water flask, her mother’s rosary that she hadn’t touched in years. Half the time, she wasn’t sure what she was packing, but the act itself grounded her.

She stopped at her dresser, pulling open the top drawer. A photo stared back at her: her and Joe, arms slung around each other, goofy grins plastered across their faces at the carnival two summers ago. She traced the edge of the picture, throat tightening.

“I’m coming for you, idiot,” she whispered.

The bag was too heavy when she zipped it shut, but she slung it over her shoulder anyway. Her reflection in the mirror made her laugh bitterly—eyeliner smudged, hair wild, still wearing last night’s glitter top. She didn’t look like someone ready for drills, discipline, or war.

But she was.

She scribbled a note for her landlord, left it under the rent reminder stuck to the door, and took one last look at the apartment. Empty bottles on the counter. A pile of laundry she’d never folded. Neon heels lined up by the wall. All the scraps of the life she was leaving behind.

“Later,” she muttered, locking the door behind her.

The city was still asleep as she walked toward the recruitment office. Her heels clicked against the pavement, the same rhythm as the night before, but her steps felt heavier now. Certain.

Classified or not, her brother was out there, somewhere in the dark.

And Paige Anthony would tear the world apart to bring him back.