Frankie leans on the counter of a diner that smells like burnt coffee and bad decisions. The fluorescent light hums like an old song, and across from him, Duke—Vietnam vet, whiskey prophet—lights another cigarette with hands that once held an M16.
"Lost another one last week," Duke mutters, staring at the tabletop like it's a jungle he never left.
Frankie nods. No point asking who. They all knew the names before they were ghosts.
Outside, the city hums, indifferent. Inside, two men sit in silence, nursing wounds no one sees.
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