The sky over Bataan was gray by morning.
Not stormy—just overcast, like the heavens were holding their breath.
Inside the military compound, life carried on like it always did. People moved in tired rhythms. Routines meant survival. Patrol shifts rotated. Meals were rationed and served. Tools were borrowed, returned, and borrowed again.
Nobody noticed the small changes.
Not at first.
In the motor pool, Benito leaned over the open hood of a truck, his limp almost entirely forgotten as he adjusted a loose belt. One of the mechanics, a short man named Cruz, stood beside him, arms crossed.
"That belt's been slipping since last week," Cruz muttered.
Benito nodded. "You'll want to swap that. Could snap while you're mobile."
"I'll put it on the list," Cruz said, scribbling something on a clipboard. "Fuel lines too?"
"Checked 'em. All good."
Benito smiled, wiping his hands on a rag.
