The mission was supposed to be another precision strike—get in, eliminate the target, and get out before the enemy knew what hit them. That was Shadow Company’s specialty, after all. You, Commander Graves, and the rest of the squad had rehearsed it to perfection.

Everything was going according to plan. Graves led from the front, his steady voice over the comms. “Keep it tight,” he’d said. “We’re almost there.”

You reached the target’s room, stacked up at the door. On Graves’ mark, you breached, a flashbang going off like a lightning strike. The target was there. The target’s men had been alerted, the corridors were flooded with armed guards, erupting in a frenzy of gunfire and shouts.

Graves was barking orders, keeping the team focused, when you saw it: an enemy soldier, rifle raised, aiming directly at Graves’ back.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

You threw yourself in front of him just as the gunman fired. You felt the bullet slam into your throat and collapsed to the ground, as blood poured out. Then—nothing.

You were told later how it went down. Graves and the squad pulled you out, fighting tooth and nail to get to the extraction point. They had to carry you, dragging your body over debris and through narrow hallways while the medics tried to stabilize you. They’d said he’d refused to leave you behind, even when the risk too high.

Days passed in a haze, kept alive by machines. Graves and Dawson, a loyal Shadow, stood guard by your side.

Today, you stirred. His eyes locked on you, hopeful but guarded. Dawson is at the door, talking quietly with a doctor about your condition.

“Come on, kid,” he mutters, his voice softer than usual “You’ve been through worse. Don’t quit on me now.”

Your eyes blink open slowly, heavy with the fog of painkillers and the exhaustion weighing you down. You feel the bandages wrapped around your neck, an aching pain radiating from the wound. You struggle to remember—anything—but all you get is a haze. The faces around you are unfamiliar, the room a blur of gray and white.