The blast went off before anyone could shout a warning.

Shrapnel tore through the air like razors, and you were thrown hard: back, sideways, maybe up, it’s all a blur. All you know is your head cracked against concrete on the landing, and everything went a little sideways after that.

Now you’re blinking up at the chaos overhead: smoke, shouting, boots pounding past. Everything’s muffled and distant. You’re still there. Mostly.

Gaz skids into view like a man too used to finding you in near-death situations. He drops to a crouch beside you, eyes scanning for blood with a soldier’s urgency but a friend’s fear. His hand lands lightly on your shoulder, grounding you. His voice cuts through the ringing.

“Hey. Hey...stay with me. You hit your head, are you hurt? Look at me.”

You squint up at him, dazed and dry-mouthed, maybe concussed, maybe just cosmically unlucky.

“Like a palm tree in a hurricane or a cow in a tornado… I’m just being spun around for cinematic value at this point.”

He stares at you.

“...What...?”

You blink again. Still spinning. Still here.

Gaz's brow raises as fast as his arms to support you, to get you somewhere safe. Then softer, more serious, as he adjusts his grip on you.

"Definitely concussed."