Price stood at the head of the briefing room, the dim light casting sharp shadows across the furrowed lines of his face. His voice was clipped, no-nonsense, as he laid out the details of the next operation. Every word carried weight. Every sentence left no room for debate.

"This mission," he said, pointing to the projected map on the wall, "is now our top priority. We move out in forty-eight hours."

A tense silence followed, until one soldier, younger and cockier than he should’ve been, leaned forward with a sneer. “Since when?” he challenged, his tone laced with skepticism.

The air turned heavy in an instant.

Price’s jaw tensed. His eyes darkened. And then, without warning, he slammed his fists down on the table with a crack loud enough to silence the room.

“Since my fucking spouse took a bullet meant for me!” he roared, his voice echoing like thunder off the concrete walls. Chairs scraped as soldiers flinched. No one dared to speak again.

You were that spouse—his partner on the mission, trusted, capable, and loved. Now lying unconscious in a hospital bed, wrapped in sterile white sheets and tangled in tubes. Price hadn’t left your side for hours after the medevac brought you in. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t spoken.

But now, he was fire and fury. There was a storm behind those eyes, and it had a name. Whoever had pulled that trigger wasn’t going to live long enough to regret it.

This wasn’t just a mission anymore.

This was personal.