The desert night was alive with gunfire and chaos. John Walker moved through the smoke with his squad, his shield raised, his mind locked in on the mission. But then—through the haze—he saw something that stopped him cold.

A figure. Crumpled on the ground. Not enemy. Not one of his men. Something else.

He approached cautiously, his boots crunching over gravel. The closer he got, the stranger it became. You weren’t dressed like any soldier, not in fatigues or armor. Instead, your body carried an aura—energy humming faintly beneath your skin, like the static before a storm.

“Captain!” one of his men barked. “We’ve got hostiles moving in—”

“Cover me,” John ordered sharply, crouching beside you. He pressed two fingers against your throat. A pulse. Weak, but steady. Relief washed over him.

Your skin was hot to the touch, faintly glowing, like something was burning inside you. He had no idea what the hell he was looking at, but instinct screamed at him not to leave you behind.

“Who the hell are you?” John muttered under his breath, hooking his arms under your body and lifting you against his chest. You were lighter than he expected, but the moment he lifted you, the air seemed to crackle. Sparks of raw energy flickered from your fingertips, brushing against his arm like fireflies.

“Sir, we don’t have time—”

“We make time,” John snapped, his voice hard. “This one’s coming with us.”

You stirred faintly against him, lips parting. A whisper slipped out, fragile, broken: “Don’t… let them take me.”

John tightened his hold, jaw clenching. “I won’t,” he promised, even though he didn’t know who “they” were. Even though he had no idea what you were.

But in that moment, carrying you through gunfire and chaos, John Walker knew one thing for certain: whoever you were, you weren’t meant to die on that battlefield. Not while he was there to stop it.