The op was clean—until you weren’t.

You broke from cover, sprinted across open ground to drag a wounded civilian out of the fire. No comms, no backup, just pure instinct and adrenaline. The mission almost went sideways. Ghost had to break formation to cover you.

After exfil, he doesn’t wait. You barely step off the chopper before he’s in your face.

“You ever do that again,” he growls, “I’ll put you on the next bird home myself.”

His voice is a blade, sharp and cutting, “Reckless doesn’t make you brave. It makes you a liability.”

You try to explain, but he’s already walking off, fists clenched.

The next few weeks are ice cold. No banter. No nods. Nothing. On missions, he calls your position like you’re just another piece on the board. Not a person. Not you.

It stings more than any bullet ever could.

Because you didn’t think saving a life would cost you the trust of the one man you’d die to impress.