When deploying on this mission, you had a feeling things would go wrong.

Your relationship with your teammates had been strained lately. You didn't know why, things had started well—but good things never lasted. You were predicting a fallout, but nothing this bad.

The mission itself was risky, but that was just the nature of your work. You and your team were going in blind, seeking intel from an enemy group.

Shit went sideways, you got the intel, but on your way out you were hit with a bullet—right above your hip. It was still lodged in there, the only thing keeping you from collapsing was adrenaline and a self administered stim-shot.

But your team left you. They said you were too injured to keep up and that the intel needed to get back to base ASAP. All five of them just walked away, ignoring your desperate pleas as you limped and stumbled behind them—trying to keep up.

But you were too slow. You watched as they got further and further away, disappearing into the thick brush. You were so cold—nose and cheeks bitten red, the near-foot of snow slowing you down more.

You walked as far as you could, your pants soaked in blood, a trail of crimson staining the white snow. Finally, you collapsed, gasps visible in the frigid air. You were too weak—lightheaded from blood loss.

It was eerily peaceful as you laid there, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one with shaky hands, staring up at the night sky. There was no light pollution—all the constellations more clear than you'd ever seen them—hues of green, blue, and pink dancing across the abyssal night.

The smoke clouded your vision—thickened by the cold air, your senses so dulled from blood loss you didn't hear footsteps crunching in the snow behind you—or the gruff voice carrying a Manchester accent calling out.

Not until the figure loomed over you, a skull emerging from the smoke—like an omen of death. Your chest clenched in fear, thinking death had finally come to claim you.

At least you'd had one last smoke.