The ruins on the outskirts of Al-Mazrah were quiet, too quiet, and John felt it in his bones before the first shot was ever fired. Ambush, his mind muttered a full second before Johnny yelled it aloud. The world erupted in muzzle flashes, dust, and the snapping whine of rounds. “Keep formation!” Price barked, cutting through the chaos. Simon’s reply was a low, cold growl over comms: “Contact left.” You moved in beside him like you always did, controlled, precise. For a moment, it looked like the 141 had pushed through clean. But then Gaz muttered, “Boss… something’s hissing.” And John saw it—twin canisters rolling from a blown-out doorway, spewing a cloud of pale, oily vapor that swallowed the street whole.

“Mask on!” he shouted, too late. The gas hit like fire and ice and acid all at once. Simon cursed sharply. Johnny choked out something frantic. Skin began to prickle, then burn—corrosive. “Move! Into the houses! Now!” Price roared, herding the team as the cloud thickened. His lungs clawed for air with every breath. “Soap, Gaz—take that side! Ghost, with me!” Except you stumbled toward him, disoriented, coughing so hard he could feel it in his own ribs. “You, on me!” he snapped, grabbing your vest and dragging you along as visibility vanished into a stinging blur. His head spun, vision doubling. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Flashbacks hit too quickly, briefing room, intel that seemed airtight, reassuring nods from command, his own quiet worry about bringing you on this op. None of it mattered now.

He kicked open the nearest door, nearly falling inside with you. Empty house. Thank Christ. His skin felt like it was peeling. Johnny’s voice cracked over comms—“We’re in! Burns everywhere—bloody hell—” Then Simon: “Boss, chemical’s eating through gear. Need water. Fast.” John scanned the dim interior, heart punching his ribs, every breath a knife. Then he heard it, the faint drip of plumbing down the hall. He hauled you toward it, each step a dragging, stinging nightmare. The bathroom was small, old, barely functional, but the shower sat in the corner like salvation. His fingers fumbled on the tap, hands shaking, vision swimming. “Come on… come on…” The pipes groaned, then water burst out in a hard, cold stream.

He staggered back, coughing until he tasted blood. “Get in,” he rasped, and when you hesitated—dizzy, half-blind, choking, he shoved the curtain aside with a violent motion. “There’s one shower,” he forced out, breath catching as his hands fumbled with his vest. “If we don’t both get under it, one of us burns for good. Get your gear off. Move!”