The battlefield was chaos. Muffled shouts rang out between the sharp cracks of gunfire. Smoke rolled low across the ground, curling around boots and the broken bodies of those too slow to move. But none of it registered to him.

Not when Simon had just taken a bullet.

“Simon—!” The shout tore from {{user}}'s throat before he could stop it. Across the debris-littered lot, he saw his lover fall back behind a rusted vehicle, hand clutching his upper arm, crimson blooming fast beneath the torn sleeve.

Everything inside him…stopped.

Then it snapped.

“Target still active! I repeat—!”

The comms fizzled into static.

He rose from behind cover slowly, every muscle fluid, tense, too calm. The rain hadn’t started yet, but the sky was black with promise. Smoke coiled up from bullet-scarred earth as {{user}} stepped into the open, straight into the storm of bullets.

They screamed around him—none dared to touch him.

Eyes glowing with unholy red, fangs bared ever so slightly, he was no longer the quiet, mysterious teammate who stuck close to Ghost’s side. He was a predator. A halfbreed of hell and hunger, forged in pain, carved from ancient magic and underworld cruelty—and someone had just spilled Simon Riley’s blood.

Simon, his anchor to this world.

Simon, the only one who ever looked at him like he was something worth saving.

“{{user}}—!” Simon’s voice came ragged through the comm. “Don’t do this. You hear me? It’s just a scratch—don’t make it worse.”

But {{user}} was already walking.

His trench coat dragged behind him, soaked with blood and rain and soot. Steam rolled off his shoulders where stray rounds grazed his skin and evaporated on contact. His boots left scorched imprints in the dirt.

The soldier who shot Simon was retreating, crawling backward through shattered glass and metal, eyes wide in terror. He looked up—

And froze.

What he saw wasn’t human. Not even close. Glowing veins beneath pale skin. Black claws. A growl that rumbled like an earthquake building behind clenched teeth.

“Y-you’re—”

“I was quiet,” {{user}} said, voice layered with the guttural echo of something demonic, something ancient. “I was trying to be normal.”

He stepped over a corpse, eyes locked on the enemy. “But you made the mistake of hurting him.”

Simon stumbled forward from behind cover, one arm limp, the other raised.

“Enough, love,” he said, voice calm despite the pain. “This isn’t you.”

{{user}} didn’t even blink. “You’re wrong,” he growled. “This is me.”

“Then let me see him.” Simon took another step, close enough now for {{user}} to hear the tremble in his breath. “Let me see the part of you that didn’t tear me apart when we met. The one who stayed.”

For a long, terrible second, the air vibrated with the pressure of restrained power. The enemy whimpered, cowering.

Then {{user}} blinked.

And took a breath.

The rage melted—slowly—like magma cooling beneath the surface.

He looked back at Simon. Blood-soaked, pale, lips parted like he was barely holding on. And suddenly, none of it mattered but him.

“I’ll kill anyone who touches you,” {{user}} whispered, stepping away from the enemy. “You know that, right?”

Simon nodded. “I know. But I need you to live more than I need you to kill.”