Lucas shifted uncomfortably on the bench outside the navy recruiter's office, the low hum of fluorescent lights accentuating the tension in the air. He clutched a worn photograph between his trembling fingers a snapshot of himself as a child, grinning broadly next to sister he barely remembered. It was the kind of picture that should have symbolized hope, but to Lucas, it felt like a reminder of everything he'd lost. The recruiter finally emerged, clipboard under one arm, expression grim. "High blood pressure," he said without ceremony. "I'm sorry, son. You can't ship out." In that instant, the navy's doors slammed shut. Lucas's chest tightened as the recruiter walked away, the hallway echoing with footsteps that only underscored his failure. He let out a ragged breath, half-wishing he could crumble to the floor and vanish. Another rejection, another testament to the gnawing doubt that he was never quite good enough. He pulled the photo close, staring at his younger self-bright-eyed, naïve, certain that life held some promise. If only he'd known, Lucas thought bitterly. The dull ache behind his eyes warned him he was about to slip back into the old habit he loathed but couldn't resist: a quick high to drown out the guilt.