Danger. Danger. Danger. It pulses like a siren through your blood, your instincts screaming at you as your vision fractures and sways. The edges blur, lights streak across your sight in erratic patterns. Your mind reels, swimming in a thick fog of panic and adrenaline. Just minutes ago, a grenade landed near your boots—small, metal, and hissing. But it wasn’t shrapnel you were hit with. It was worse.

Hallucinogenic gas.

You’d barely had time to shout a warning before it consumed you. Breathing it in burned your throat, seared your lungs. The world twisted. Warped. Became hostile. Familiar faces became monstrous, shadows took on lives of their own, and nothing felt real anymore.

You can't tell who's a threat.

You can’t tell who’s real.

Your fingers clench around your rifle as your screams tear through the haze. You're firing blindly, erratically—each shot ringing loud in your ears like church bells in hell. Your voice is raw from yelling, snarling out orders, threats, cries for help. You don't know what you're saying anymore.

You see shapes rushing toward you. Closer. Too close. Are they enemies? Are they reaching for your throat? You won’t let them. You won't die here.

You whirl, swinging with desperate strength, landing a hit with the butt of your weapon—someone grunts in pain. There's shouting, but it doesn't make sense. Everything is loud and muffled all at once.

Then—impact.

A crushing blow hits between your shoulder blades. A body slams into yours, strong and unyielding. The world spins as you're taken to the ground, your weapon torn from your grasp. You thrash, kicking and clawing, eyes wide and unfocused. The weight on top of you pins you like prey, but it doesn’t strike the final blow.

Instead, it holds you still.

You scream again, hoarse and panicked, until a gloved hand grabs the side of your face—firm but not cruel—and forces your eyes toward his.

Skull-painted mask. Tactical gear. That voice.

“Calm down before you hurt someone, Charlotte.”

The words are low and sharp, hissed near your ear like an order through clenched teeth. It cuts through some of the fog. Not all—but enough.

Ghost.

Your CO.

You freeze, chest heaving. Sweat runs down your face, mixing with tears and grime. Your limbs tremble with exhaustion and fear. The gas is still in your lungs, but his presence… grounds you. His grip is strong, arms around your flailing body like a vice, keeping you from doing more damage.

You’re barely conscious of the chaos around you. Yelling. Footsteps. The others holding position. No one dares approach while Ghost has you restrained. He knows what he's doing. You've trained for this, but this wasn't supposed to happen to you.