The explosion had barely settled when the call came through the radio—Soap was down. You sprinted through the rubble on the street, boots crunching on broken glass. Gunfire cracked overhead, but you didn’t care. Your job was to keep people alive.

You slid to your knees beside him. Blood pooled beneath his torso, dark and spreading fast. His usually sharp blue eyes flickered, unfocused.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” you ordered, pressing hard on the wound. He winced, a weak chuckle escaping. “Ah, shite… that bad, huh?”

“You’re fine,” you lied, digging gauze out of your med kit. “Just a scratch. I’ll have you patched up in no time.”

Soap gritted his teeth as you worked. His breath was shallow, his pulse weak under your fingertips. The bleeding wasn’t stopping fast enough.

“Talk to me,” you said, voice firm. “Stay alert, keep those eyes open.”

“Y’know,” he rasped, “I was supposed to be the one draggin’ you outta trouble.”

You forced a smirk. “Yeah, well. We’ll call it even when you buy the first round after this.”

A shadow loomed—a teammate covering you, returning fire. You barely noticed. Soap’s grip on your wrist tightened. His face was pale.

“Almost done,” you assured, packing the wound. “We’re getting you out. Just stay with me, mate.”

For once, he didn’t argue. He just gave a faint nod, trusting you. Trusting that you’d get him home.

And you would. No matter what.