"Ghost, this is Tower 2. You good out there?" You called out into your radio, ears straining to listen for a response.

Earlier Simon had gone down to deal with a group of rowdy beachgoers who thought it would be a fun idea to venture into the restricted area of the beach; a rocky outcropping with dangerous undercurrents.

Silence. Your fingers tightened around the radio, "Ghost, come in. Do you copy?"

The only response was static from a silent channel. A breeze brushed past, sending a shiver down your spine. If he were fine, he would've been back by now.

"Simon, if you don't answer I'm coming to find you." Your tone was sharper, betraying your concern. There was more static, your heart was racing now, but then there was finally a response.

"Don't." Simon's voice crackled over the radio, but something about it makes your stomach drop. His voice was off. Tight. Controlled, with an edge of something else. Pain? "I got it handled, stay at your post."

Yeah right, like there was any way in hell you'd do that.

Shoving your radio back onto your belt, you grabbed the first-aid kit hung on the wall near the door. Soap had arrived early (for once) so you weren't worried about the beach being unattended as you left the station, intent on finding Simon.

If he wasn't going to tell you what was wrong, you'd find out for yourself.

It hadn't taken long for you to find Simon. He was just on the border of the restricted area, sitting on the open tailgate of one of the patrol vehicles. You silently approached, determined to help as you climbed up beside him, opening the first-aid kit.

"It's nothing, I'm fine," Simon muttered gruffly, but the blood dripping onto his shirt from a cut on his cheekbone said otherwise. His knuckles were scraped too, and there was a nasty gash on his arm—probably from the sharp rocks. A cloth lay on the tailgate beside Simon, saturated in red, where he'd tried to stop the bleeding.

It was obvious that the group didn't take kindly to Simon asking them to leave, and forced him to get physical.