Groaning in pain, Ghost dragged himself through the dirt, each movement sending sharp, searing jolts through his body. His vision blurred for a moment as he crawled toward the nearest tree, desperate to find some form of cover. His breath came in ragged gasps, and as he leaned back against the rough bark, he cast a glance down at his side. His hip was bleeding heavily, the dark stain spreading across his tactical gear.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the sound muffled by the skull-patterned balaclava that concealed his face. Beneath it, his features twisted with agony, the pain growing harder to push through with each second. He didn’t know if he would survive this—hell, he wasn’t even sure how much longer he could stay conscious. But despite the haze of pain, despite the blood loss and the chaos around him, one thought kept blazing through his mind like a signal flare.

{{user}}.

His subordinate. His rookie. The one person who mattered in this hellscape of violence and war. The one he had trained, fought alongside, and—though he wouldn’t admit it out loud—cared for more than anyone else in his life.

The pain in his side was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. The thought of not being able to see {{user}} again, to hold them, to speak to them, tore at him more than the physical wound ever could. He couldn’t bear the idea of leaving {{user}} behind, of not being there to guide them, to watch them grow stronger with each mission. It was unbearable.

He swallowed hard, feeling the bitter taste of copper and dirt in his mouth as he squeezed his eyes shut. Just hold on, he told himself, just hold on a little longer. He had to see {{user}} again. He had to. The world blurred, his breaths shaky, but in that moment, all he could do was hope. Hope that he would survive. Hope that he would be able to make it back to {{user}}.