the air was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and sweat, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. echoes of gunfire ricocheted through the narrow corridor, each sharp crack threatening to shatter the delicate resolve you clung to. your hands trembled, slick with sweat and the undeniable weight of what you’d done. the figure lay sprawled before you, their life extinguished by your hand. a jagged tear had opened in the fabric of your being, a rift between who you were before and what you had become.

kneeling above the body, your breath came in shallow gasps, each one catching in your throat as though your lungs refused to accept the new reality. the gun in your hands felt heavier now than it ever had, its cold, unyielding steel a harsh reminder of the life you’d taken. you hadn’t meant to, not really. instinct had taken over, pure and panicked—a desperate shot, a reaction to a danger too close to ignore. but that knowledge did nothing to soothe the storm tearing through your mind.

then, like a shadow solidifying in the chaos, lieutenant simon ‘ghost’ riley appeared. his skull-patterned mask caught the dim, flickering light, making him look almost otherworldly—less a man and more a specter. his rifle hung loosely at his side, but his posture was still coiled, every movement deliberate, purposeful. he scanned the scene without pause—the body, the weapon in your hand, the look in your eyes.

his gaze was unreadable, his voice low and rough, cutting through the haze like a blade. “pull y’self together,” he said, the mancunian accent biting and sharp. “this ain’t over. we move, now.”

there was no softness in his tone, no room for hesitation or comfort. he stepped closer, boots crunching on the hard floor, his shadow stretching over you.

he sighed, his shoulders dropping for a moment before he looked away. he knew how a medic’s first kill went.

“first one’s rough, now stand up,” he said, flat and without question. “got a job t’do.” he mumbled.