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The cockpit was a glass coffin, vibrating with the roar of a General Electric F110 engine. Below, the Korean Peninsula was a patchwork of green and gray, but Captain Tae-hoon wasn’t looking at the scenery. He was looking at the sun.

He punched the afterburners. The F-15K screamed, carving a path through the clouds. He wasn't just flying a mission; he was chasing the light. The enemy was a shadow against the glare, a dark speck in the blinding gold.

"Locked," he muttered. The tone in his ear was a steady, high-pitched sing-song.

The explosion behind him was a second sun, briefly outshining the first.

He remembered the briefing—the rogue MiG crossing the DMZ, the ticking clock of a nuclear escalation. But as he pulled the stick back, the G-force pressing him into his seat like an invisible giant, the politics faded. There was only the heat of the sun reflecting off his visor and the silhouette of his wingman, Cheol-hee, trailing smoke three miles ahead. "I’m going in," Tae-hoon whispered.

Tae-hoon didn’t turn back. He was a "Top Gun" in a world that demanded discipline he didn't possess. To the brass, he was a liability. To the sky, he was a brother.

He leveled out, his fuel gauge dancing near empty. The radio was a chaos of cheers and commands, but Tae-hoon just watched the sunset bleed into the ocean. Mission accomplished, the screen read. Heading home.

"Eagle One, you’re drifting above the ceiling," the radio crackled. The English subtitles flickered across the bottom of his mental HUD: [Static] … Return to formation.

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