Being in the SAS wasn't supposed to be easy.

You'd passed training with flying colors, learning how to survive being a hostage and steel your mind against torture. It made you confident that you could handle the real thing—if it came down to it.

But that's all it was. False confidence, like acing the homework and then getting to the test—just to realize you have no idea what's going on.

You'd been put through that test, for 3 months. Captured and tortured for information—the training helped you stay quiet, and you revealed nothing—but those 3 months left you ruined.

You'd seen other torture victims of course, how they'd been affected—but you never thought that would be you. You never imagined being the one waking up countless times in the middle of the night, a scream stuck in your throat and covered in a cold sweat.

The memories replayed in your mind, the voices—you avoided looking in the mirror as you changed out of your drenched pajamas, not wanting to catch a glimpse of all the scars your body was now covered in—some still painful.

These days, everything was foggy—the days blended together, you couldn't remember names and faces. You were always in a daze.

So it wasn't a surprise when you blinked, and you were no longer in your room—now sitting at the table in the rec-room. You didn't remember walking down here, or making the mug of tea that was now held between your hands—fresh from the boiling kettle.

You didn't realize as your palms turned pink from the hot ceramic, didn't feel the pain. You blinked again, the mug was half empty now, and there was the aftertaste of earl grey in your mouth.

You didn't hear the muffled voice in your ear, then a large hand on your shoulder. Fear gripped your heart, and you flinched—the still scalding liquid spilling over onto your hands. You didn't noticed.

"Shit– {{user}}, calm down, it's just me." Simon, his familiar skull balaclava coming into view. Instead of menacing, it was comforting—your Lieutenants presence cutting through the fog.