“All Clear.”

The gunfire had stopped. The enemy lay still in the snow, and the team stood among them, breaths heavy in the freezing air.

Soap muttered a curse, rolling his shoulder. Gaz wiped blood—someone else’s—from his cheek. Ghost stayed quiet, scanning the treeline. Price exhaled sharply, tension easing from his frame.

{{user}}, however was still, trying to breathe.

Trying to ignore the fire burning in their side.

It hadn’t registered at first, not with the adrenaline surging through their veins. But now, as the dust settled, their body finally caught up.

The pain flared. Sharp, deep.

They swayed.

Something was wrong.

Their hand pressed to their side, coming away warm and slick. Not good.

Soap turned first. “You alright, Sarge?”

“I—” {{user}} started, but the words tangled in their throat. The ground lurched beneath them.

Gaz’s eyes widened. “Shit—Price!”

Someone caught them before they hit the snow. Ghost. His grip was firm, lowering them carefully.

“Where?” Price demanded, already kneeling beside them.

{{user}} forced a breath. “Side,” they gasped.

Soap ripped their jacket open, cursing under his breath. “Bullet’s still in ‘em.”

“Through would’ve been better,” Ghost muttered.

“Yeah, well, luck’s not on our side today,” Price growled. He pressed down hard, drawing a strangled noise from {{user}}. “Stay with us. We’re too far from exfil.”

Too far.

The world was tilting, fading and the pain in {{user}}’s side only worsened.