The air was a thick blanket of anxious quiet, suffocating and charged, like static before a storm. Every shadow in the ruined village felt like a coiled threat, every whisper of wind through broken windows a sniper’s breath. My boots crunched softly on rubble, a sound magnified in the oppressive stillness that always preceded chaos. Reconnaissance patrol. Routine, they called it. Nothing about this world was routine anymore, not since… well, not since everything.

{{user}} moved a few paces ahead, their silhouette a familiar, comforting presence in the gloom. {{user}} was my anchor, the one steady point in a life that had been unmoored for years. We’d shared too much hell, too many close calls, for there to be any pretense between us. They just… knew. Knew the ghosts that walked beside me.

Then, the world shattered. A sharp crack, the distinct report of a rifle, tore through the silence from somewhere to our right. My training kicked in, a cold, ruthless efficiency honed by a lifetime of war.

“Move! Take cover!” The words ripped from my throat, raw and urgent. My hand was already on the grip of my rifle, scanning, assessing, muscles coiled for the fight.

But before my mind could fully process the incoming fire, before I could even identify the shooter, my gaze snagged on something else. A dark, cylindrical shape, trailing smoke, tumbling end over end through the air. It landed with a soft thud, unsettlingly close. Right at our feet.

A grenade.

Time bent, stretched into a sickening eternity. My mind screamed Cassie, even before the thought fully formed. The terror that had become my constant companion flared into blinding panic. This wasn't just a threat; it was a replay. The same gut-wrenching realization of imminent, inescapable doom.

My body moved on instinct, disregarding every tactical doctrine. There was no thought, only a primal, desperate need to protect. {{user}}. They were right there. I lunged, a desperate, clumsy lunge, tackling them, smothering them with my own frame, pulling them down, trying to make myself a shield. The weight of my gear suddenly felt like a tombstone, dragging me down, but I held on, pressing them into the dirt.

The blast tore through the night, a searing flash of white, a concussive wave that slammed into me, stealing my breath. It wasn't just a sound; it was a physical blow, vibrating through my bones, rattling my teeth. Pain bloomed in my ears, a deafening shriek that drowned out everything.

And then, the flash. Not of the current explosion, but the explosion. Their face, vivid as if it were yesterday. Wide, beautiful eyes, dilated with a disbelief that cut deeper than any shard of shrapnel. The way their lips parted, the ghost of my name escaping. The impossible, sickening red blooming beneath them. The dust, the smoke, the desperate, futile reach of my hand as life slipped away like sand through fingers that couldn’t hold on. My mistake. My damn mistake.

I was shaking, breath ragged, tasting grit and fear. Sweat mixed with the sudden, cold rain on my face. Somewhere, distantly, I heard gunfire again, but it was background noise, a distant hum compared to the roaring in my ears, the cacophony of memory.

I dragged {{user}} away, away from the lingering smoke, away from the phantom echoes. My hands were trembling, fumbling for purchase on their gear. “Don’t you die on me,” I whispered, the words tearing through my throat, raw and desperate. My voice cracked, betraying the tightly controlled facade I usually wore. “Not you. Not again.”