When HEROES don't come HOME

Chapter Twenty-Four – The Doberman and the File

The apartment door shut behind him with a dull click. Reeves leaned against it, listening to the silence. No footsteps, no shadows trailing him. Just the low hum of the fridge and the eager nails of a Doberman clicking across hardwood. His eyes drifted to the corner of the living room—where a cardboard box sat beside his chair. He hadn’t touched it in months. Inside lay his past: medals still pinned to faded velvet, a folded certificate from the academy, photographs from the day he graduated. The frame on top was cracked, glass splintering across the image of a younger man in uniform, his smile sharp, eyes alight with ambition. Half the medals were loose, tossed like spare change. Others were bent from being shoved into the box too many times. Reeves crouched for a moment, running a hand over the broken glass. His reflection stared back at him from between the cracks—a man worn down, almost unrecognizable from the one in the photo. He let out a humorless laugh and muttered, “Yeah. Hell of a fall.” The Doberman padded over, pressing against his leg. Reeves scratched behind its ear. “Don’t look at me like that. You didn’t know me back then.” He pushed the box lid closed with his foot, as if that could silence the ghosts inside, and dropped into his leather chair with a groan. The table in front of him was already cluttered: an ashtray with three half-burned cigarette butts, a bottle of whiskey unopened, and the envelope he’d taken from the dead woman’s apartment. He emptied the contents onto the table. Papers fanned out, curling at the edges. Printouts, handwritten notes, pages of chemical equations he barely understood. He picked up the first page. Batch 14 – unstable aggression – terminate. His eyes scanned the words, but his brain didn’t stay there. Instead it slid back—darkness, the narrow space of a closet, her body pressed against his. Her breath on his neck. Her lips brushing his. Reeves cursed under his breath and slammed the page down. The dog flinched. “Not you,” Reeves muttered, rubbing his face. “Her.” He grabbed another document, forcing his eyes to track the typed lines. Observed subject experienced psychotic break within 48 hours of administration. His lips pressed thin. Good soldiers reduced to experiments. But then—her again. The feel of her mouth, the way she’d leaned into him, not timid but hungry. His hand tightened on the paper until it crumpled. “Goddamn it, Reeves,” he told himself aloud. “She’s a widow. She’s not yours. She’s not anyone’s.” The Doberman padded over, resting its head on his knee. Reeves scratched absently behind its ear. “She’s trouble, boy. That kind of trouble you don’t touch. You just… watch from a distance.” He gave a bitter laugh. “But hell, when did I ever take my own advice?” He reached for another sheet. Incident Report: Candidate hospitalized after extreme muscular convulsions. His chest knotted. Men broken in half by something meant to make them stronger. And still, her face pushed back into his head. The flush in her cheeks after the kiss. The softness beneath the steel of her uniform. He dragged both hands over his face, groaning. “Stop. Stop it.” But he couldn’t. He saw her standing in front of him again, olive-green fatigues stiff, but her body anything but. He wondered—against his own will—what she looked like beneath the fabric. How many scars she carried. How many sleepless nights had carved shadows beneath her eyes. He slammed his fist against the table. The dog jolted upright. “s**t,” Reeves hissed, shaking his head. “No. Not going there. Not now. Not ever.” He leaned back, forcing deep breaths into his lungs. “She kissed me because I smelled like her husband. That’s it. That’s all it was. She wasn’t kissing me. She was kissing a ghost.” The words cut deeper than he expected. The Doberman whined softly. Reeves reached down again, stroking the smooth skull. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not jealous of a dead man. I’m just…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “Yeah. Maybe I am.” The silence stretched until only the ticking of the old wall clock filled the room. Finally, Reeves shoved the mess of papers into order. He wasn’t here to fantasize. He wasn’t here to replay mistakes. He was here for answers. One page after another. Reports, notes, scratched formulas. Then—half-buried under the pile—something different. A clean, typed sheet. He froze. The heading read: Stabilization Candidates – Current Status: Hospitalized. Reeves’s eyes raced down the list. Names. Ranks. Twelve of them. Each marked as “injured,” “on leave,” or “medical.” But he recognized the pattern. Every single one was officially accounted for—yet here they were again, catalogued, hidden in plain sight. He leaned forward, tracing a finger down the page. One name after another. Men who had survived the serum. Not dead, not “disposed of.” Alive. “Jesus,” Reeves whispered. His heart hammered. The Doberman shifted, ears twitching at the change in his voice. Reeves’s mouth curved in a slow, sharp smile. “Well, boy. Looks like we just hit gold.” He tapped the page, each tap echoing like a drumbeat. “They’re still alive. Hospitalized, maybe broken—but alive. And alive means witnesses. Witnesses mean leverage.” The dog gave a soft huff, tail brushing the floor. Reeves leaned back, holding the list like a holy relic. “Bingo.” For a moment, his gaze flicked toward the corner where the box of medals sat, shadows stretching across its battered edges. His chest tightened. Those names on the list—they could still be saved. His own past, though, was long gone, broken glass and bent ribbons. He exhaled, jaw tight. “We’re going to find them, boy. One way or another.” The Doberman stretched out at his feet, content. And Reeves, for the first time in weeks, felt the old fire light in his chest again.