Task Force 141 HQ – Briefing Room, Late Evening

She sat alone at the long table, a medical folder in her hands, unopened.

The others filtered in—Price, Ghost, Gaz, Soap—but their words were a muffled mess she couldn’t understand. It was like she was underwater.

She clenched her fists, trying to focus, but when she looked up, she caught Price’s concerned stare.

He said something—probably her name—but all she caught was the movement of his lips.

“I can’t hear you,” she said stiffly, louder than intended. “I… I can’t—”

Her voice cracked, and she shoved the chair back, standing abruptly.

Price stepped forward, his voice slower, hands raised in a calming gesture. “Sit,” he mouthed clearly.

She hesitated, then sat back down, breathing hard.

Price grabbed a notepad from the desk and scribbled something.

He slid it toward her.

“How long?”

She swallowed thickly, picking up a pen with shaking hands.

“Since the riot at Crossgate.”

Price’s jaw tightened. Soap shifted awkwardly nearby, while Ghost just folded his arms, silent as ever.

Price wrote again.

“We can work with this. You’re still needed.”

Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” she said, voice small, the words vibrating strangely in her own skull.

Price leaned down, tapping two fingers firmly against the table. She flinched—then realized he was getting her attention, steady and deliberate.

He pointed at her.

Then signed, slow and clumsy but clear: “Strong.”

Her chest tightened.

For the first time since the explosion, she believed it. Maybe not fully— —but it was a start.