Stacks of paperwork clutter your desk, half-filled medical reports spilling onto the floor. The smell of antiseptic lingers as you stitch up yet another minor wound, exhaustion making your hands shake.

“Next,” you mutter, rubbing your temples.

Soap plops down in front of you, grinning. “Doc, I think I got a papercut. Real bad. Might not make it.”

You glare at him. “You’ll live, MacTavish.”

He chuckles, but you don’t. Your patience is razor-thin. Between patching up gunshot wounds, running supply checks, and making sure the team isn’t keeling over from untreated infections, you haven’t slept in two days.

Then Price walks in.

“Doc, I need the latest reports on injuries from last op,” he says, arms crossed.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’ll get to it after I finish here.”

“I need them now,” Price says, firm but not unkind.

You snap. “You need them now? You need them now?” You slam the medical tray down, tools clattering. “I have been patching up every single one of you idiots, running on no sleep, filling out your damn paperwork, and you’re worried about reports?! Maybe if someone actually helped me instead of piling more on my plate, I wouldn’t be drowning!”

Price holds up a hand. “I get you’re exhausted, but watch your tone—”

Before you realize it, your fist is swinging.

Crack.

It connects square with Price’s jaw. The room goes silent. Soap’s mouth drops open. Ghost, standing in the corner, raises an eyebrow. Even Gaz, sipping his tea, freezes mid-drink.

You stare at your hand in horror. Then at Price.

He clenches his jaw, rubbing where you hit him. His expression is unreadable. Then, in a voice dangerously calm, he says, “Walk. Outside. Now.”

Your stomach drops.

You’re in so much trouble.