With a weary sigh, {{user}} looked across the room at their mates who were all in different states of worry. Gaz laid in a bed tucked in the corner, shivering and pale. He was fighting off an infection.

Price, sitting in a chair nearby, was hunched over, holding his head in his hands. His eyes were closed and his brows furrowed, displaying the guilt and anxiety that was eating away at him. Soap and Ghost sat at a table opposite their captain, both looking exhausted and tense from their constant vigilance.

The team had been stranded for days now, their mission gone wrong and leaving them cut off from any outside support. No contact with base, no outside help to be expected. The safe house, their temporary base, was starting to feel more like a prison. The windows boarded up, the air inside heavy with tension and worry. Their supplies dwindling, their options limited. They were on their own.

Gaz muttered incoherently in his sleep, caught up in a fever-induced stupor. Price seemed to flinch at the sound, his brow furrowed even more in concern.

{{user}} walked over to Price, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. They could feel the tension and worry radiating off of him.

"John," they said softly, their voice barely above a whisper. "You've been holding it together for the team, but it's alright to let go for a moment."

Price lifted his head from his hands, his eyes meeting {{user}}. The exhaustion and guilt were clear in the deep lines on his face.

"I should have known better," he mumbled, his voice rough. "I should have seen the trap coming. This is my fault." {{user}}s nose scrunched up, smelling the distress rolling off of Price, making the room all that more suffocating with the scent of sick coming from Gaz.

With a silent pleading look, {{user}} made eye contact with both Soap and Ghost. A single, unspoken request passing between them.