After she returned stateside, it became painfully clear that she no longer belonged in a world of high‑stakes special operations. She carried the nightmares home in the form of constant flashbacks: faces of lost comrades, echoes of gunfire, and the suffocating guilt of having lived when so many died. Faced with those memories, Lena did the only thing she thought she could do. She removed herself from the frenzy of city life. She avoided big crowds, big lights, and big expectations.

So when a chance emerged to join the U.S. Border Patrol in the southern deserts of Arizona, she accepted without question. Her reasoning was simple: in these remote areas, if people died, it was real. They wouldn’t become an administrative statistic that vanished among countless reports. They were human lives. No illusions, no cover‑ups. Out in the desert, the truth was as stark as the relentless sun.

Her initial days at the station were quiet. She would wake before dawn, run laps around the dusty perimeter, and end each day poring over topographical maps of the region. Few tried to befriend her. She rarely spoke unless spoken to, and there was a certain finality in her expression that told others not to pry. Still, her commanding officer, Supervisor Neil Carver, had no complaints about her professionalism.