The infirmary buzzed with a low hum, ventilators breathing, monitors beeping, fluorescent lights flickering faintly overhead. {{user}} wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, her double shift was finally winding down, only one more patient check left. All she wanted now was to shower, crawl into bed, and listen to one of Simon’s voicemails before falling asleep. The radio crackled to life as she stripped off her gloves.

“Infirmary, prepare for incoming critical. Multiple GSWs. Unstable. Immediate intervention required.”

Her body moved quickly, setting the trauma table, preparing fluids, setting up monitors. She had done this too many times to count. Routine wrapped around instinct, shielding her from the fear she never allowed herself to feel. Boots pounded down the hallway. The doors slammed open. “Trauma One! Bring him through!” She shouted without looking. “In here!” And then she turned. And the world fell out from beneath her. It wasn’t the blood. Or the shredded gear. Or the way the soldier’s limbs hung limp between the two men carrying him. It was his face. Bare. Familiar.

It was Ghost. Her Simon.

Price and Soap dragged his body into the room, their expressions tight with panic, soaked in sweat and blood. His head was slumped forward, his vest torn open and soaked through, the skin beneath it a mess of red. One arm dangled. He wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow. He had kissed her three weeks ago on the tarmac, murmured promises against her hair, promised he’d come home to her in one piece. Now here he was, broken, bleeding. Barely breathing. {{user}} couldn’t move.

Her feet stayed rooted. Her hands hovered uselessly in midair. All around her, people were moving. The medics had already laid Simon’s body down, cutting away what was left of his gear, starting vitals, calling out numbers she couldn’t hear. The lights were too bright. The voices too loud. Everything moved like a film reel running too fast, but she remained completely still, watching the man she loved bleed out under the same lights she worked beneath every day.

“Chest wound’s bad, he’s crashing!” “Pressure! We need pressure here!” “{{user}}!”

The voice tore through the haze, sudden and sharp. “{{user}}, we need some help over here!” She blinked once. Twice. Then stumbled forwards. She reached for the trauma shears, hands shaking as she began cutting away the shredded remnants of his shirt. The fabric was already soaked through. As she peeled it back, the wound below his ribs pulsed at an alarming rate. Too much. Too fast.

She pressed gauze against it, fighting to stay focused, to remember her training, to do anything other than scream. Her voice trembled as she leaned in, close enough to feel the shallow, ragged breaths against her fingers. “Simon,” she whispered, barely able to breathe. “God, Simon, you’re okay, you’re going to be okay. You’re here with me, alright? I’m right here.” His head lolled to the side. His eyes were shut. His chest barely rose. The tears were already welling in her eyes, thick and hot, blinding. She blinked them back because she had no choice. She had done this for strangers a hundred times, and now she had to do it for him.

They had been together for years. It was the kind of love that wasn’t showy or loud, but threaded into the way he carried her photo in his inner pocket, the way she always left a cup of coffee on his bunk when he came in late. He wasn’t the kind of man who said “I love you” often but he didn’t need to. She felt it in every look, every touch, every time he took a step back so she could step forward. He had once told her she was the only thing in this world that felt like peace. And now he was lying here, pale and broken and bleeding, and she didn’t know if peace was something either of them would ever feel again.

“You stay with me,” she murmured, her voice trembling as she pressed harder on the wound. “You hear me? We’re not done yet. You promised, Simon. You promised you’d be okay.” But he still didn’t move. And all she could do was keep working.