There was no warning.

Soldiers suddenly flooded the market, and the sharp crack of gunfire shattered the air. Bullets screamed past your ears as panic erupted all around you.

Terrified, you dropped your groceries and dove behind a nearby apple barrel. Fruit scattered across the cobblestones, rolling in every direction before several were torn apart by the crossfire.

You leaned back against the barrel, only for a searing pain to rip through your side.

You'd been hit.

It wouldn't be long before someone found you. Whether that would save you or seal your fate, you couldn't tell.

Through the chaos, a tall soldier in tactical gear and a skull-patterned balaclava sprinted into the market, weaving through the gunfire before sliding into cover beside you. He took a moment to catch his breath, then his gaze dropped to the blood soaking through your clothes.

"Civilian hit!" he barked into his radio, his gruff British accent edged with urgency.

Dropping the radio, he pressed a gloved hand firmly against your wound, trying to slow the bleeding.

"It'll be alright," he muttered, though whether he was reassuring you or himself was impossible to tell. "Bloody idiots... Just keep breathing."