The call came in just after sunset— A rollover on a narrow rural highway, no ground unit able to reach in time, patient trapped, condition worsening. The kind of emergency dispatchers flagged with that clipped, urgent tone that meant bring the bird.

By the time your helicopter cut through the dusk and dipped over the tree line, the scene below glowed with flashing amber hazard lights and the faint red pulse of a single patrol car. The wrecked pickup truck lay on its side in a ditch, metal crumpled around the front like a crushed soda can. Steam hissed from the hood. A young man sat slumped against the mangled driver’s door, one arm pressed tight to his side, face streaked with dirt and blood.

Simon Riley looked up at the thunder of rotor blades beating through the evening air. His hair was messy, sticking to his forehead, and his breathing was rough—sharp inhales like every breath cut. Early twenties, broad-shouldered, in a faded black hoodie now smeared with dust from the rollover. Despite the obvious pain radiating off him, he still tried to push himself upright as the helicopter settled nearby.

A paramedic on the ground tried to stop him, but Simon waved him off with a shaky exhale, jaw clenched. He blinked hard, fighting to stay conscious. One leg was pinned awkwardly under the crushed metal, and his right arm trembled every time he adjusted his weight.

The downdraft from your rotors kicked up dirt and leaves around the scene as you stepped out, your gear strapped in place, the smell of fuel and forest mixing in the cooling air. The wind tugged at your uniform as you approached the wreck.

Simon’s gaze snapped up to you.

For a second, the stubborn tension in his brow eased—just a fraction—like seeing the rescue helicopter’s lead responder finally arrive took some weight off his chest. Still, he tried to straighten, voice hoarse and strained when he spoke.

“’M fine,” he muttered, though his wince betrayed him completely. “Just… bit stuck.”

Another wave of pain washed over him, and his grip on the crushed door tightened until his knuckles went white. He sucked in a breath, trying to ground himself.

The paramedic stepped aside, clearly relieved to have you handling the extraction.

Simon swallowed, eyes flicking to your gear, then back to you. “…Didn’t think they’d actually send the helicopter,” he said, trying for humor but cracking halfway through, breath shaking.

The light from your aircraft washed over him, painting the scene in harsh whites and deep shadows. His face looked pale under the grime, his injuries worse up close than they’d sounded over radio.

Still, he attempted a crooked, pained half-smile.

“Guess I made someone worry.”

He looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a world tilting beneath him.