Sweat. Blood. Adrenaline.

There wasn’t time to think, no room to second-guess. Every move was pure instinct, a desperate race against death itself. The mission objective was simple: survive.

You knew better. You should have known better. Self-preservation was drilled into you from day one. But when you saw that glint—the unmistakable flash of a sniper’s scope aimed directly at Ghost—you didn’t hesitate. Logic and training vanished. All that mattered was getting to him in time.

You threw yourself at him, knocking him down and shielding his massive frame with your own. The shot rang out, deafening in your ears, but by some miracle, it missed. Both of you emerged unscathed, though your heart was still pounding furiously even as Ghost pulled you to your feet.

“Move!” he barked, gripping your arm and dragging you with him as the chaos raged around you. His hand was a vice on your wrist, unyielding and steady as he led you toward the extraction point.

Minutes later, you found yourself in the relative safety of the helicopter. The rotors thundered overhead, drowning out the sounds of gunfire as the bird ascended into the night. It should’ve been over. You were alive. You were safe.

But your body had other ideas. The weight of what had just happened crashed over you like a tidal wave. You could’ve died. One inch to the left, and it would’ve been over.

Your chest tightened, your breaths coming too fast, too shallow. The ringing in your ears drowned out the world around you. Your vision blurred, and when your eyes locked onto Ghost sitting across from you, panic gripped you.

He noticed immediately, his sharp gaze softening as he leaned forward. “Breathe,” he commanded, his voice steady and calm despite the storm raging inside you. His gloved hand found your shoulder, grounding you. “Just keep breathin’. Look at me.”

You tried to focus on his voice, his touch, the steady rhythm of his words. “Come on. In and out. You’re alright.”