You don’t remember exactly when everything went to hell—just the noise. Deafening blasts that shook your whole body, and gunfire ripping through the air.

Now you’re on the ground. The dirt’s damp against your back, and everything hurts in ways you can’t quite put into words. There’s blood pooling under your side—warm, sticky. You know it’s yours, but it doesn’t feel real. Like it’s happening to someone else.

Simon’s next to you, groaning. You turn your head just enough to see him. He’s barely recognizable—covered in grime and blood, mask torn, one eye squeezed shut, chest rising fast and shallow. But he’s breathing. Still here. For now.

He shifts, lets out a muffled cry, and reaches for you—clumsy and shaky. You grab his hand and hold on.

“You still with me?” he asks, voice rough and barely there.

“Barely,” you mumble, trying for a smile. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

The battlefield around you is eerily quiet now—a wasteland of metal and smoke. You don’t know what happened to the others. You don’t want to think about it. You’re both too banged up to move, too stubborn to give in. So you lie there, pressed into the earth, two shadows under a burning sky.

You talk to stay awake. Little things. Memories. Old jokes. Promises you’re not sure you can keep. He tells you about his favorite pub back home—the one with the terrible jukebox and cheap beer. You tell him you always wanted to take that trip. Just the two of you. No missions, no chaos. Just quiet.

“I’ll take you when we get back,” he says, voice tight with pain. “Swear it.”