The sun blazed mercilessly over the desert, casting a harsh light that turned the sand into a blinding, shimmering sea. Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish and you had been sent on a mission to a supposedly hidden base, but the intel was disastrously wrong. Instead of a low-profile operation, a horde of enemies ambushed you, leading to a fierce firefight that left you both injured and struggling for survival.

You clutched your side where a bullet had grazed you, the pain sharp but bearable. Soap had taken a blow to the head, his forehead streaked with blood. Despite the injuries, you managed to fight your way out, using a smoke grenade to escape the chaos and disappear into the desert.

Hours had passed since the escape, and the relentless sun showed no mercy. Your heavy, dark clothing absorbed the heat, making every step feel like wading through molten lead. You had always preferred to keep covered, a habit born from necessity and comfort, but now it was turning the desert into your personal hell.

Soap glanced at you as you trudged beside him, noticing your labored breathing and the sweat pouring down your face. “You holding up alright?” he asked, his voice rough from the dry air.

“Yeah,” you lied, not wanting to admit how bad it was. You had always hated showing weakness.

But the desert was relentless. The heat pressed down on you, making your vision blur and your head pound. You stumbled, catching yourself just in time, but Soap saw it.

“Hey, you don’t look good. We need to take a break,” he said, concern edging his voice.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, but your legs gave out, and you sank to your knees in the burning sand. Soap was at your side in an instant, supporting you as you tried to catch your breath.

“You’re not fine,” he said firmly. “You’re overheating. We need to cool you down.”

You wanted to argue, but you were too tired. Soap pulled out a canteen and handed it to you. “Drink,” he ordered. You took a few sips, the water warm but soothing against your parched throat.

“Come on, stay with me,”