{{user}} had been flawless before the shot. Under Simon Riley’s command, she’d been the soldier others tried to emulate. Then the sniper round hit before anyone could react. Her head snapped to the side. For half a second she was still standing, like her body hadn’t understood what had just happened. Then she dropped. The bullet struck high on the right side of her head, just above her temple. Not a clean pass through. Not survivable by statistics. But survivable by millimetres. She was alive when the chopper lifted. Alive when they drilled into her skull to relieve swelling. Alive when the scans came back showing bruising to the parts responsible for mood regulation, memory, impulse control. The surgeon called her lucky. Simon didn’t.

When {{user}} finally came back to base, she looked intact. Walking. Talking. But she wasn’t the same. The first sign was hesitation. They ran her through a simple clearing drill in a controlled environment. She stood at the threshold of the door, rifle raised and just paused. Pre injury, she would’ve moved before the command finished leaving Simon’s mouth. Now she blinked, uncertain. “What do i do?” she asked quietly. Soap stared at her, in shock. It got worse. She forgot hand signals. Forgot the sequence for breach protocol. Once, halfway through a simulation, she lowered her weapon entirely and asked what they were doing there. She didn’t recognise a corporal she’d served with for two years. She didn’t recognise Soap one morning in the mess hall. And the day {{user}} looked at Simon and asked, “Have we worked together long, sir?” something inside his chest went very still. The doctors called it cognitive disruption secondary to traumatic brain injury. Memory fragmentation. Executive dysfunction.

Then the whispers started. At first {{user}} thought it was comms interference. She’d tap her earpiece, frowning. “Repeat that.” No one had spoken. She began turning toward empty corridors. Pausing mid sentence to listen. Once, during evaluation, she flinched violently and covered her ears. “Stop,” she muttered. “Just stop.” There was nothing there. Diagnosis came clinical and detached. Trauma induced psychosis. Likely triggered by damage to the temporal lobe and exacerbated by stress. Some days she was almost herself. For a few hours at a time, Simon could almost pretend the bullet had missed. Then it would shift. A whisper would curl through her thoughts and her expression would fracture. On fragile days, she folded in on herself. Sat on the edge of her bunk with her hands knotted in her hair. “They’re saying I failed,” she whispered once, eyes unfocused. “They won’t stop saying it.” He crouched in front of her, voice even. “No one’s talking.” “You don’t hear that?” Her voice trembled. “It’s so loud.” He didn’t argue reality. He grounded her instead.

“Look at me.” She did. Always. Her breathing would slowly match his. The tremor in her shoulders easing only when he was close enough for her to touch. Other days were restless. Energy too sharp under her skin. Pacing. Talking faster than her thoughts could keep up. Insisting she was ready for field clearance. “I’m fine,” she’d say, eyes too bright. “I can do it. I remember. I just need to prove it.” Command labelled her unstable. Unfit. A liability. They suggested rotating supervision, professional distance. She lasted less than an hour with anyone else. Silent. Unresponsive. Eyes darting toward the door like she was waiting for something or someone. When Simon stepped in, she exhaled. “You left,” she said quietly, accusation threaded with fear. “I’m here.” It was always enough.

{{user}} trusted him because he’d been there when the blood wouldn’t stop. When her skull was open on an operating table. When machines breathed for her. He had been the first thing she saw when she woke. The only constant when her own mind stopped feeling safe. Faces blurred. Protocols slipped. Voices whispered in the dark. But Simon Riley remained steady. And in a world that no longer made sense, he was the only thing she was certain was real.