The mission was over. Everyone said it like it meant something.

The Thunderbolts’ base was still alive with noise—metal doors sliding shut, boots striking the floor, voices overlapping, laughing too loud, talking too fast. Someone shouted your name from across the room and you flinched so hard it felt like a physical blow.

Your chest tightened.

At first it was subtle. A pressure. Like someone had set something heavy right in the middle of your ribs and walked away. You tried to ignore it, to keep your face neutral, but the air felt wrong. Too thin. Too sharp.

Your heartbeat stumbled, then raced.

You swallowed. Tried to breathe deeper.

It didn’t go in.

Sound started to blur together—the hum of the lights, the clank of equipment, the echo of voices turning into a wall of noise that pressed in on you from all sides. Someone brushed past you and your vision swam, edges going hazy, like the room was tilting.

No. No, no, not here.

Your lungs began to burn as your breaths came faster, shorter. In—barely. Out—too quick. Panic crawled up your throat, sharp and immediate, and you knew if you didn’t leave right now, you were going to fall apart in front of everyone.

You turned and bolted.

Down the corridor, footsteps uneven, hand scraping the wall for balance. Your chest felt like it was caving in on itself, each breath coming out in a broken gasp. By the time you reached your room, your hands were shaking violently.

You slammed the door shut and locked it.

The moment the latch clicked, your legs gave out.

You slid down the metal door, breath tearing out of you in frantic bursts, hands clawing at your chest like you could force air back in. Your vision tunneled. Stars sparked behind your eyes.

“I— I can’t—” you tried to say, but it came out as a sob.

Your breaths sped up even more, shallow and useless. Panic exploded fully now, hot and overwhelming, every thought spiraling into the same terror: I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Something’s wrong.

Tears streamed down your face as you curled inward, body shaking uncontrollably.

Outside the door, Bob had stopped dead.

He could hear it. The gasping. The broken, desperate rhythm of someone losing control.

His chest tightened in recognition.

“Hey,” he said immediately, knocking once, gentle but urgent. “It’s Bob. I’m here.”

No answer—just a sharp, choked inhale that made his stomach drop.

“I’m coming in, okay?” His voice stayed calm even as fear threaded through it. “You’re not in trouble. You’re safe.”

He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The sight of you on the floor—knees pulled tight, hands clutching at your shirt, chest heaving in frantic spasms—hit him like a punch. You were crying openly now, breaths coming so fast they barely counted as breathing at all.

“Hey, hey,” Bob said softly, dropping to his knees beside you. “Look at me. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

You shook your head wildly, eyes glassy, unfocused. “I—I can’t— I can’t breathe—”

“I know,” he said immediately, voice steady, grounding. “I know it feels like that. You’re breathing, even if it doesn’t feel right. I’ve got you.”

Without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms.

At first you resisted—muscles tense, body rigid with panic—but then another breath tore out of you in a strangled sob and you collapsed into him completely. Your hands fisted into his shirt as your chest hitched violently, breaths coming in rapid, uneven gasps.

Bob wrapped his arms around you firmly, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades, the other steadying your shaking frame.

“Match me,” he murmured near your ear. “Just listen to my voice.”

You couldn’t. You tried, but your body was spiraling, breaths stacking on top of each other, dizziness flooding in. You clutched him tighter, terrified, gasping into his shoulder as tears soaked through the fabric.

Bob adjusted his grip, grounding you, holding you like he was anchoring you to something solid.

“Slow,” he said, breathing deliberately deep so you could feel it against your chest. “In… and out. You’re not dying. This will pass. I promise.”