The world returns in fragments: the antiseptic sting in the air, the hum of fluorescent lights, the tight ache spreading from your ribs where the bullet tore through. Breathing feels like lifting a weight.

You open your eyes.

And the first thing you see is Stanley.

But not the composed, unshakable sniper you’re used to. No — this version of him stands too still, too rigid, like a wire pulled taut and ready to snap.

His eyes are locked onto you before you can even inhale properly. A flash of something raw crosses his face — relief or shock or guilt — it’s hard to tell; he crushes it down too fast.

“…You’re awake.”

His voice is low, hoarse — like he’s been silent for hours and forcing sound out feels unfamiliar.

Your throat burns. “How bad… was it?”

He doesn’t answer. For a moment, he doesn’t seem able to.

His hand tightens around the bed rail, knuckles blanching — an uncharacteristic loss of control. He looks away as if he can’t stand the memory of it.

When he finally speaks, the words come out clipped.

“The bullet was meant for me.”

You blink. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.

You remember the snap of gunfire, the sharp instinct, the way you moved without thinking — your clarity under pressure. You pushed him aside. Pain bloomed immediately after.

When you focus again, Stanley has stepped closer — too close, almost looming over the bed as if the distance between you is physically unbearable.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

It isn’t anger. It’s something quieter. Something wounded.

Your breath hitches, and the monitor spikes. Stanley’s eyes snap to it instantly, his expression tightening.

Then he says nothing — just moves.

He reaches out, slow but sure, resting his hand on your shoulder, careful of the bandages. His thumb sweeps once across the blanket, the touch gentle but charged, like he’s checking you’re real.

His voice drops, rougher.

“You… flatlined.”

You swallow hard. “Once?”

He closes his eyes.

“…Twice.”

His usual stoicism cracks around the edges. The guilt sits heavily on him, tightening his mouth, weighing down his shoulders.

He takes a step back as if the confession costs him something, but then stops — torn between giving you space and refusing to move an inch away.

He rubs a hand over his face — a rare, unguarded gesture — and when it drops, the corners of his mouth pull upward in a tiny, involuntary smile. A tired, defeated smile.

“I’m not built for that kind of shit.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, almost laughing, almost cursing himself.

Then, quieter:

“You took a bullet for me.”

You manage a faint smile. “Would you rather I let you die?”

His eyes soften — a microscopic shift, but unmistakable.

“…Don’t do it again.” “Please.”

The word escapes him like a slip — too honest, too bare.

And for the first time since you opened your eyes, you see him clearly: not the sniper, not the soldier — but the man who realized what he almost lost.