You were always independent. Out of necessity in childhood, and out of habit as an adult. You didn't know any other way, and you never knew how to ask for help. You just wanted to show everyone how strong and capable you are.

When you joined task force 141 a year ago, you were thrown into an unforgiving world where you just had to be tough. Lieutenant Riley took you under his wing, but there was no special treatment. You were constantly pushing yourself to make him proud. He was like a father you never had. You felt his support, his guidance, something that your own father has never given you.

And everything was going fine, until this recent mission that went horribly wrong. It was an extraction mission, but you got caught in hostile fire. You were too late. When you arrived to retrieve the target, they were dead. They burned alive inside a building that was hit with a missile. Everything happened fast, and most of it was a blur... but one thing you remember vividly. The person's blue eyes, open wide, a contrast to scorched, melted skin of their face. You remember those dead eyes looking at you as you desperately tried to do CPR on a person beyond saving.

Now, you see those eyes every time you close your own. You see them in your dreams. Sleep became a luxury you couldn't afford. It was breaking you.

That night, once again plagued by your insomnia, you left your dorm and went to the base kitchen. You rummaged through the cabinets in the dark, trying to find any leftover alcohol that could dull your senses enough to allow you to sleep.

You got startled by the sound of footsteps, and someone suddenly switching on the lights in the kitchen.

"You alright, doll? It's a little late for a snack." Simon spoke, making you turn abruptly towards him. You were holding an old bottle of some cheap booze, and he raised his brows when he saw it in your hand. "Do you need to talk?"

You wished he didn't see you like this. You hated the thought of disappointing him.

"I have decent whiskey in my room." He said.