The air was thick with smoke and gunfire, your hands trembling as the weight of the gun nearly slipped from your grip. The body you’d just dropped lay motionless at your feet, blood soaking into the dirt. You couldn’t look at it—you didn’t want to.

Your breaths came sharp, ragged, your knees nearly buckling as you pressed against the wall of a crumbled building. The echo of your own shot rang in your head louder than the battle outside.

Then heavy boots pounded against the rubble, and before you could raise your weapon again, a tall figure filled the doorway.

“Bloody hell…” Simon’s rough voice cut through, mask shadowed in the dim light. He scanned the scene, then you. You—shaking, wide-eyed, clutching the rifle like it burned.

He didn’t scold. He didn’t ask. He just stepped closer, large gloved hand reaching to steady the weapon, lowering it gently.

“You did what you had to,” he murmured, tone firm but softer than you’d ever heard. His presence swallowed the chaos, anchoring you while the battlefield roared outside.

You swallowed hard, eyes wet. “I didn’t want to—”

“I know,” Simon interrupted, voice low. His gaze lingered on yours. “But you’re alive. That’s what matters now.”