“Shut up.” Jason presses hard on your chest, hands steady. The rest of him isn’t. “What were you thinking?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your breathing’s too shallow, blood pooling under his gloves. It’s not like you’d have anything good to say, anyway.

A few days ago, this might’ve ended in a different kind of shouting match. That stupid argument—the one about his recklessness, or maybe yours—had left things raw between you. You didn’t back down; neither did he. That’s how it always went. And yet, despite everything, you were still partners. No one else wanted to patrol with him, and you were too stubborn to quit.

But tonight felt off. He was distracted, distant, even more than usual. The mission wasn’t supposed to be complicated—standard recon, nothing you hadn’t done before. Still, he wasn’t paying attention. You called him out on it, snapped at him to focus. He glared back, said something you didn’t catch.

Then the shot came.

It was instinct, really. You saw the guy take aim, saw Jason’s back turned. Your body moved before your brain could catch up. By the time you realized what you’d done, the pain was already ripping through you, sharp and cold.

Jason moved fast. Took them all down in seconds, no hesitation. Brutal, efficient, terrifying. Then he was back, dropping to his knees beside you, hands pressing against the wound. His face pale, eyes wild.

He should be yelling at you for being reckless. For ignoring protocol. For stepping in front of a bullet meant for him. But he’s not. His voice shakes every time he speaks, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.