You and Hoodie—(his callsign, not his real name—) were part of a four-member special ops team operating in Bolivia, tasked with taking down a drug cartel, with you being the group leader.

During a confrontation with cartel members, you were positioned as the sniper when you were suddenly shot.

You staggered back, crashing against the wall and tumbling down the stairs of the sniper tower, feeling the sharp pain as the bullet pierced through your vest and into your side.

The air was knocked out of your lungs, and you collapsed onto the ground.

Hoodie caught sight of you and muttered a curse under his breath.

"Damn it," he gasped..

As soon as he could, he rushed over to help you, noticing your labored breathing.

"Hey, stop moving—" Hoodie hesitated, hearing your breaths grow weaker.

"No, no..NO. You better not die on me, you bastard..." he grumbled, quickly grabbing some bandages.

As much as he'd always hate to admit it- if he ever would- Hoodie's heart was racing at just the thought of losing you. If anyone would save you, you'd know it'd be him.