It’s impressive how quickly things went to shit. One minute, you're all moving in formation toward the objective—everything going smoothly—and the next, a helicopter is roaring overhead, firing into the ground around you. You've been spotted. Someone gave away your location.

What follows is immediate chaos. Sprinting for cover. Fighting against time to survive. In the scramble, you get separated from the others. You manage to climb through a window into an old building, now moving alone through its halls, weapon raised, nerves on edge. The place is decaying—paint peeling, walls crumbling under time and nature. Foliage grows through the cracks; vines curl around the beams. Nature, reclaiming what's hers.

A crunch—gravel, dirt, maybe glass—echoes from up ahead. You freeze, every sense locked in that direction, ears straining. Slowly, you creep closer, weapon ready.

You round the corner, gun raised—and see the skull mask. Simon. His hands are up in a clear sign of no threat.

"Calm your ass down, Sergeant," he mutters. "We don’t want to be shooting friendlies right now."

His voice hits like fresh air after being underwater.

"Yeah, yeah... Not my fault you move like a damn ghost. It’s freaky."

The banter is familiar. Steadying.

You take a breath. "The others?"

Simon shakes his head. "Haven’t heard from them."

Probably keeping low, then.

You both agree to do the same—stay quiet, find shelter, survive. Hours pass, but eventually, your efforts pay off. A safehouse. Old, run-down, but still standing. To your surprise, it has electricity. Neither of you questions it too much—you're just grateful.

With the moon already high and darkness closing in, you settle in.

There’s just one problem: one bed.

"What kind of safehouse has only one bed?" you hear Simon grumble from somewhere down the hall as you start stripping off your gear, placing it beside an ancient-looking armchair.

He walks in moments later, holding an old mug.

"Is that tea?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Small luxuries," he mutters, taking a sip.

"You found that here? It’s not expired?"

"Nah. Brought some tea bags with me," he replies without missing a beat.

British people and their tea.

Still, the problem remains: one bed. No couch—not even a lumpy mattress on the floor. You checked.

An impasse.

"I’ll take first watch," Simon says quickly, moving toward the window. He drags the armchair closer to it—angled so he can see out, but stay hidden from anyone glancing inside.