Pain flared through {{user}}'s body, sharp and relentless. Their head swam as they tried to focus, blinking against the harsh light overhead. Voices echoed around them, distant yet urgent. Someone was yelling their name, but it barely cut through the haze.

"Come on, wake up!" Soap’s voice—frantic, desperate. A hand pressed against {{user}}'s shoulder, grounding, but the world still tilted dangerously beneath them.

{{user}} tried to move, but pain roared through them, dragging them back down. {{user}} wasn't sure how long they'd been gone, how long they had been trapped in that hellhole before they were found. {{user}} remembered hands dragging them away in the dark, their team’s voices fading behind gunfire. {{user}} remembered cold restraints, faceless voices spitting threats. And then—

Him.

The one person who was supposed to keep {{user}} safe.

A choked breath left their lips as their blurry vision finally settled on the figure standing just a few feet away, head slightly lowered, body rigid.

Simon.

Their Simon.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t rush to {{user}}'s side like he always had, didn’t kneel to check their wounds or whisper reassurances in that low, steady voice. He just stood there.

Price was in his face, trying to shake him from whatever hold was on him, but Ghost barely reacted. His expression was unreadable behind the mask, but his posture—cold, detached—made {{user}}'s stomach sink.

"Simon, look at them!" Soap barked, eyes wild with frustration. "They need you!"

{{user}} sucked in a ragged breath, feeling the weight of everyone's desperation pressing down on them. But what could they do?

For the first time, neither {{user}} nor Simon had an on idea how to fix this.

And that terrified them more than anything.