It hurts.

The airstrike has left him half buried under heaps of dirt, his limbs sprawled out in agony. He's lying there, eyes glued to the sky, warm red droplets trickling through a gash on his mask, the buzzing inside his ears deafening.

It hurts. And he's alone. Left behind—whether by mistake or because no one else survived—he can't possibly know the reason. All he can feel is that excruciating pain, the burning in his flesh.

The sound of footsteps over gravel sets his nerves on edge, and his eyes dart to the side, coming to rest on you—on that damn insignia embedded in your sleeve.

Shit.

He tries to stretch his arm towards a gun, but the pain is too much. A muffled groan rises from between his clenched teeth.