She had been deep in study, eyes scanning dense medical texts, highlighters scattered across her desk. One exam stood between her and graduation—between her and the future she had clawed her way toward.
Then—a crash.
Glass shattering. Metal screaming.
She froze. The blizzard outside was merciless—wind howling, snow drowning the streets faster than she could say the word snow. Nobody was out. Nobody dared to be.
So what the hell had just wrecked?
She shoved her chair back, rushed to the window. A flipped vehicle. And movement inside.
TF141.
Price. Ghost. Soap. Gaz. Roach. Alejandro. Rodolfo. Kamarov. Krueger. Nikto. Farah. Laswell. Alex. Nikolai.
Barely conscious.
And she was the only one willing to move.
She wasn’t dressed for this. Oversized hoodie. Shorts. A coat thrown on in blind urgency.
Didn’t matter.
She ran, feet crunching against layers of frozen pavement. The cold slammed against her skin like a thousand knives, stealing her breath before she had time to register it.
Didn’t matter.
Her neighbors watched from their windows. Cowards. Watching her do what none of them would.
She reached the wreckage. Hands numb, chest burning, body screaming. A cracked window— not enough space.
She grabbed the closest rock, slammed it against the glass, again, again, again—until it broke completely.
The wind threatened to eat her alive.
Didn’t matter.
She ripped at the seatbelts, searching for the release, cutting through them when they refused to budge.
Price first. Too heavy. Way too heavy. Tactical gear weighed them all down like they were built from lead.
She dragged him out.
Then Ghost. Then the others.
She forced them toward her home, fought against gravity, against muscle mass, against time, because she was working with minutes before the cold stopped all of their hearts.
She shoved them inside. Hands shaking violently. Breath ragged. Skin numb.
They were alive.
She was alive.
For now.
But they needed medical attention. And she was the only person qualified to give it.
She worked fast.
The storm outside raged harder, slamming into the fragile walls of her home, rattling the windows like they would shatter at any moment.
Didn’t matter.
She had fourteen bodies on her floor. Fourteen barely breathing soldiers—all with injuries that ranged from manageable to critical.
Ghost was barely conscious. Hypothermic. She pressed heated blankets against his skin, murmuring sharp instructions to stay awake.
Soap had blood slicking his temple. Head trauma. She grabbed gauze, checked for fractures, kept pressure steady.
Price had a gunshot wound. Through-and-through. She cleaned the wound, wrapped it, made sure there was no deeper damage.
Gaz’s breathing was uneven. Cold shock. She adjusted his position, worked through the worst of it, kept him talking.
Alejandro tried to sit up. Broken ribs. She didn’t let him—forced him to stay still, forced him to let her work.
Nikolai muttered something under his breath as she shoved antiseptic against his arm wound. Didn’t flinch. Just watched her work.
Laswell was groggy, but aware. She grabbed the nearest medical pack, handed it off.
"What do you need?" she asked.
She answered without hesitation. "More than what I have."
Nikto coughed, voice rough. "How the hell do you know all this?"
She didn’t stop working. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t flinch.
"Med student. Almost graduated early."
Krueger exhaled sharply. "Almost?"
She grabbed an IV pack, checking fluid levels. "One exam left."
Kamarov scoffed, shaking his head slightly. "Jesus."
Roach muttered, *"So you're telling me the only reason you're not a full doctor yet is because of one test?"
She nodded once, adjusting Ghost to sit up.