The terrain was wrong in that quiet way that meant danger. No birds. No wind. Just the low hiss of your own breath cycling through the filter of the gas mask as you moved forward, boots sinking slightly into soil that looked dead, bleached by whatever had rolled through before you.

The gas hung low, a pale, oily fog that clung to the ground and crawled up your legs like it was alive. Every step stirred it. Every breath tasted faintly metallic, even through the filter.

Ghost moved beside you, rifle up, shoulders tense beneath his gear. He kept glancing to the ridgeline, to the collapsed structure ahead, to anywhere an enemy might be hiding. You were doing the same, fingers flexing around your weapon, adrenaline keeping your thoughts sharp and brittle.

You never saw the enemy.

One second you were walking. The next, something slammed into you from the side with enough force to knock the air straight out of your chest. You hit the ground hard, the world jolting white as your helmet cracked against stone. Your grip broke. Your weapon skidded out of reach.

Weight pinned you down. A body. Too close. Too fast.

You tried to inhale and your lungs seized, burning as if you had swallowed fire. Panic flared hot and immediate. You clawed at the ground, tried to twist free, tried to raise your arms, but the pressure on your chest made everything slow and clumsy.

A single gunshot cut through the haze.

The weight vanished.

You sucked in a breath that didn’t feel right. Too sharp. Too thin. Your chest spasmed and you coughed hard, the sound ugly inside the mask. Your lungs burned worse now, like they were being scraped raw from the inside.

For a split second, you thought you were just winded. Thought it was the impact. Thought you could push through it.

Then Ghost was there.

He dropped to one knee beside you, rifle discarded, gloved hands gripping your shoulders. You could see his eyes through the skull mask now, wide and locked on your face, fear breaking through the discipline he never let anyone see.

“{{user}},” he said, sharp and urgent. “Your mask.”

You tried to answer him. Nothing but a rasp came out.

Your vision blurred at the edges as you lifted a trembling hand and wiped at the front of the mask. The motion smeared something across the visor. You blinked, forced your focus to settle.

There it was.

A jagged crack running across the front, spiderwebbed and deep, splitting the seal. Thin tendrils of gas curled inward through it, seeping into the space meant to protect you.

Your stomach dropped.

The burning in your lungs intensified, each breath harsher than the last, like you were inhaling needles. Your hands started to shake, fingers going numb. Panic surged again, louder this time, harder to control.

Ghost swore under his breath. One hand came up to steady your head, firm but careful, like he was afraid you might shatter if he touched you too hard.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice low, commanding, but you could hear the strain beneath it. “Don’t panic. I’ve got you.”

Your vision tunneled as the gas pressed closer, and all you could think was how little time you suddenly had left.