When you felt the sickening crack of your leg snapping mid-mission, fear didn’t hit you at first. It was frustration, maybe a hint of guilt, knowing that someone from your team would have to break formation to help you out. You hadn’t even considered that they might choose not to turn back at all.

But as your team melted into the dense cover of the trees, fading out of sight without a backward glance, a hollow dread settled in. You were alone, injured and exposed, behind enemy lines.

The muffled thud of heavy footsteps barely cut through the haze in your mind, your ears ringing as fear twisted cold in your gut. Someone was coming, and it wasn’t your team. This was an enemy—closer by the second.

Then, out of the shadows, Keegan loomed, his figure half-shadowed, his rifle aimed. He stopped, staring down at you with unreadable eyes, tension tightening the grip on his weapon as he cast a wary look over his shoulder.

For a moment, it was just silence between you, like he was weighing his next move.

And then, with slow, careful intent, he dropped to his knees beside you, keeping one hand on his rifle. "Where are you hurt?" he asked, his voice low, still not meeting your gaze as he scanned your injuries.