Only 16%—those were the odds of going blind from a flashbang. Sixteen percent. And Price had drawn the short straw.

At first, it was barely noticeable. A slight blur in the mornings, floating specks in his vision, the growing difficulty of focusing on a target. He ignored it, as he often did with anything that might slow him down. But when the symptoms worsened, he finally dragged himself to an ophthalmologist, though he already knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

Retinal detachment. Therapy. Possible surgeries. And, of course, immediate suspension from all field operations.

The glasses prescribed—thick lenses for a worsening -8 prescription—barely helped. His vision continued its relentless decline, and the weight of those thick frames on his nose was almost as unbearable as the frustration building inside him. Worse still was the look on his team’s faces when they realized what was happening. That flicker of pity in their eyes. He hated it. He dismissed their concern with a reassuring smile and a joke, but inside, he was simmering. Not with self-pity—he refused that—but with anger at his own failing body.

That morning, Price sat in his office, hunched over his phone, squinting so hard his nose nearly touched the screen. He was stubbornly trying to read a report that should’ve been printed out, cursing under his breath at every misstep in the digital format. He can hardly see anything. The door opened after a quick knock, and you stepped in without waiting for permission, as you always did.

“Captain Price, staring at your phone like that will only make it worse,” you said, your voice steady, devoid of pity or condescension. He liked that about you.

“I’ve always been against electronic bloody reports,” he grumbled, looking up. His eyes searched for you, but all he saw was a vague, blurry silhouette.

And that’s when you realized just how bad it had gotten. He didn’t notice the way you weren’t dressed to regulation standards. He didn’t see the fresh bruise blooming on your lip from a sparring match gone wrong.