The mission had been simple—too simple. Recon, in and out, nothing fancy. But that was the problem. It had been too easy.

And that’s how they knew they had walked into an ambush.

Gunfire erupted everywhere, slamming through the abandoned buildings around them. They barely had time to react when bullets headed over their heads, causing them to hide behind a crumbling wall. It was hard to determine where the enemy was coming from because of the dust and debris in the air.

Kim cursed under his breath, reloading his rifle. “We need to move, or we’re dead.”

Before he could act, {{user}} saw it—one of the enemies had arrived from the side, gun raised, aimed directly at him. Horangi hadn’t noticed. They didn’t think.

{{user}} just moved.

The next moments blurred together—their body falling with his, the sharp burn of a bullet tearing into their side, the sound of gunfire ringing in their ears. The enemy went down, but so did {{user}}.

The effort of Kim's hands trying to stop the bleeding and his voice yelling their name are barely felt before they faint on him.

Kim basically carried them out: the extraction team bandaged them, and the long days in the infirmary when he barely left their side—the rest of the mission was blur. But he never said "thank you." Not directly. Instead, he observed and waited in the background.

And then, his actions started speaking for him.

The first thing {{user}} noticed when they were back on their feet was the way Kim had taken an interest in their routines.

Their weapons? Cleaned and ready before they even reached for them. Their gear? Checked, every buckle secured. Their training? He had started joining them, making sure they weren’t lazing, his sharp eyes always watching.

One day, they saw him leaving something on their bed—a sleek, custom-made combat knife with their initials engraved on the handle. When they picked it up, a small note was tucked next to it.

"You saved my life. Now I make sure you keep yours."