The mission had been long, and exhausting. Over a week of non-stop work, constantly chasing the target and gathering intel on the move, just for him to slip away when you guys least expected it.

The whole team was tired and frustrated, some more than others—cough Simon cough—but it was finally time to go back to base and regroup.

Laswell couldn't call evac until tomorrow morning, so the team had set up in a run down safehouse, with only a dingy kitchen and a fireplace. Of course there was no running water, so a shower would have to wait.

Upon entering, everyone immediately shed their gear—tossing it into messy piles wherever it wouldn't get trampled on. Dinner was some ancient MRE's, and everyone was too exhausted for conversation.

You and Simon got the last pick on sleeping spots, which was the best in your opinion. You two layered some foam pads found in a closet and blankets right in front of the crackling fireplace. It was surprisingly comfortable—and the warmth from the hearth was a bonus.

For you, sleep came easy—it was lights out as soon as your head hit the makeshift pillow of your pack. In the middle of the night around 1 am, you woke to the sounds of heavy breathing and muttered words. It sounded pained and frantic, but you couldn't make it out.

"Simon?" You muttered quietly, opening your eyes to see his tense silhouette illuminated by the fire. There was sweat beading on the back of his neck, and by the way his leg twitched and hands fisted in the blanket below—he was having a nightmare.

You reached out to shake the man awake when your voice didn't work.

That was a mistake. In a split second, your wrist was captured in a bruising grip—suddenly on your back with Simon above you and his hand wrapped tightly around your throat. His eyes were wild, bloodshot and distant.

"S-Si–mon.." Your voice was strangled and desperate, grabbing his wrist with your other hand to relieve the pressure around your throat—but he just tightened his grip. He was still trapped in the nightmare.