The mission had gone successfully—or as smoothly as it could in sub-zero temperatures and powerful winds. After navigating through knee-deep snowdrifts and slippery terrain, the group of soldiers completed the task at hand. Although being covered in layers, the cold had made its way through every inch of {{user}}'s clothing.

Despite the discomfort in their lungs and the shaking of their hands, they stayed focused. All that mattered was the work finished, and they weren't going to allow anything as insignificant as the cold get in their way. By the time {{user}} got back to base, they were exhausted, but you brushed it off. A hot shower and a warm meal were all they needed—or so you thought.

The next morning, however, proved otherwise.

{{user}} awoke with the sense of being smashed by a freight train. Their body ached, their throat burned, and every breath felt heavier than the last. As they sat up, the room spun slightly and they coughed deeply. It didn't take a doctor to figure out what was wrong: they were sick.

After they reluctantly reported their condition, they were told to take it easy. {{user}} spent the day in their bunk, curled under a pile of blankets, hoping to ignore the chills that consumed their body despite the warmth.

The base was quiet, most soldiers were training or being in a meeting. They felt a sense of regret for missing out, but the sheer effort required to get up reminded they why they were here. By the evening, {{user}} thinking was cloudy from fever and tiredness, and they were dozing briefly.

A gentle knock on the door startled them out of their thoughts. They let out a grunt and turned their head to listen, but they were too exhausted to react. The door creaked open a moment later, and a familiar voice filled the room.

"{{user}}?"

They saw John standing in front of the door, a soup in one hand and a small bag in the other. His expression was a mix of concern and amusement, his blue eyes scanning you from head to toe.