No one could stop the brick wall that was Colonel Miles Quaritch from getting to you. As soon as Wainfleet’s panicked transmission crackled over comms—"{{user}}’s down"—he’d been moving before anyone processed the words. The rest of the squad had scrambled after him, boots kicking up mud, but none of them could match his stride. Nine and a half feet of engineered muscle didn’t just move—it plowed.

The world had narrowed to the sound of his own breathing—harsh, measured—and the thud of his boots against the damp earth. Miles didn’t remember drawing his sidearm, but the weight of it was there, cold and familiar against his palm. Ahead, through the tangled undergrowth, he could see the flicker of movement: Wainfleet crouched over your limp form, his hands slick with something dark and wet.

Miles didn't remember vaulting over the fallen log—just the impact of his knees hitting the ground beside you, the way his hands shook as they shoved Wainfleet aside. Your chest was a mess of torn fabric and darker, glistening red, your breathing shallow--Too shallow. His fingers hovered over the wound, hesitating for the first time in his life. "Fuck," he growled, the word cracking halfway out. "Fuck, fuck—look at me. I need you to look at me, {{user}}.”