The road stretched endlessly ahead, the rhythm of boots on asphalt a steady drumbeat in the night. The air was heavy, thick with sweat and fatigue, and the soldiers’ presence loomed just behind, rifles ready. When {{user}} stumbled, their knee buckling, the warning sound with their number cracked through the air — second one in less than an hour.

“Keep moving,” a soldier barked, but before they could fall again, a hand caught their arm. Stebbins’ grip was firm, almost bruising, steadying them until their stride evened out again. He didn’t look at them right away, his green eyes fixed on the horizon, blond hair damp with sweat.

“You’re going to get yourself killed like that,” he muttered, voice low so only they could hear. For a moment, he let go, as if he wasn’t sure he should’ve helped at all.