His eyelids were sandpaper. He grabbed a cold cup of coffee from his desk and drank it anyway. The bitterness was a ritual. In the DCS community, they called it "study-level simulation." But it was more than that. It was archaeology. You didn't just fly the A-10C; you learned the difference between a SPI and a markpoint. You didn't just shoot missiles; you understood pulse-doppler notching and radar gimbals.

The progress bar flickered.

Leo laughed—a tired, giddy, ridiculous laugh. He glanced at the clock. 3:47 AM.

Leo sat forward, his palms suddenly sweaty. The launcher window went black for a terrifying second—the kind of black that precedes a crash, a "DCS has stopped working," a wasted night. Then, a chime. Clean and bright as a bell.