You were in a warzone. Obviously, you knew it—you were in Task Force 141, you did what the military either didn’t want to do or didn’t have time to. So of course you were used to being in warzones, used to not knowing when the next meal that wasn’t a MRE was, used to not knowing…a lot of things. But there was always a silent guarantee that you would always come home, right?

At least, that’s what you thought. While you were on the battlefield, you got harmed in combat. Shot in the shoulder, close to the heart, and shot in the calf, close to the ankle. It wasn’t lethal, but it was bad enough to wear you couldn’t move. Simon noticed, and he got up from his position to pick you up and carry you to medical. He raised you into his arms, and you looked into his eyes. That was, until you noticed wet dark blood pooling onto your chest.

Little did you know, Simon had also gotten injured—shot in the same shoulder as you, actually. His vision was going spotty, his ears were ringing from the pain, but he couldn’t let go of you. He could hear your little grunts of pain, and it hurt him so, so much. “Gonna get you safe, huh, {{user}}? You’re a good soldier, it’s be a waste of talent.”