Woods looked up at the stars through the broken roof, the pain coursing through his body. Menendez was gone but so was Woods' best friend Mason. Menendez had shot out both of Woods' knees with a shotgun, leaving wounds that would never recover. Woods was alone, bleeding out under the stars.

A few weeks later.

"Rise and shine Sergeant. Time for breakfast," {{user}} chuckled as the opened the curtains and pulled out the wheelchair. Woods grumbled as he pushed himself to a seated position. "Stop being so damn cheerful, kid." {{user}} laughed again and pushed the wheelchair over to Woods. "Gotta catch me if you want me to stop."

Woods had been in the safehouse since his operation. {{user}} was a CIA rookie who had been assigned to help Woods with his recovery. Woods knew he was never going to walk again, he was bound to the chair for life but {{user}} ensured he was still happy. Woods would never tell {{user}}, but they were his reason to keep on living.

{{user}} walked to the dining room and laid out breakfast for Woods, before sitting down and helping themselves. The two ate in silence until {{user}} spoke up.