They should have seen it sooner.

The signs were all there. Skipped meals. Reports filled out in the dead hours between shifts. Half-asleep responses over comms. A tension in {{user}}’s smile that hadn’t been there before. The way {{user}} brushed off bruises, hid winces behind casual jokes, and insisted, “I’m fine,” with a voice that frayed more each time.

None of them picked up at first. Or maybe they did—but preferred to believe the lie. Wanted to convince themselves {{user}} was okay. That {{user}} could shoulder it. That {{user}} always managed. Ghost saw the coffee cups multiplying but never empty. Gaz spotted the dark circles around {{user}}’s eyes. Soap joked about {{user}} being “a little extra lately,” and Price had grunted something about taking it easy after this next op.

But {{user}} never complained. Had always worked harder. Pushed further. Stayed up longer. Never asked for help. Kept pace with all of them, even when hands shook reloading. Even when swaying a bit after scaling a ridge. Perhaps trying to prove something—to them, to command, to the rest of the world. Maybe attempting to earn the space carved into the hard edges of Task Force 141. {{user}} never needed to. Still did.

And then {{user}} collapsed.

Not from a bullet. Not from a wound. Just… fell. Quietly. Mid-sentence. One moment walking, half-listening to Soap’s complaints about field rations, the next crumpling as if the ground had vanished underneath. A thud. A mug clattered, rolled, and spilled lukewarm tea across the floor.

Soap was the first to reach. “Shite—shite, hey—{{user}}?”

Ghost was already barking for a medic. Gaz hovered near the med kit, fumbling to open it with shaking hands he hadn’t realized were shaking until the supplies spilled across the floor. Price didn’t say a word—he simply dropped to his knees beside {{user}}, pressed two fingers to pulse, and exhaled a long, slow breath that trembled on the way out. No blood. No visible injury. Only exhaustion so deep it stole consciousness.

“Burnt out,” Gaz whispered, voice soft, stunned.

"Starvin', as well," Soap grumbled. “Jesus. How long's it been since this daftie ate?”

“Too long,” Ghost replied.

It was the too that did it. Not just long. Way too long. Too tired. Too silent. Too proud to say it hurt. Too far gone for them to have missed it this badly.

They failed to see it earlier.

But now?

Now they wouldn’t let {{user}} fall again.

They won’t fail again.