The mission had been long, and exhausting. Over a week of non-stop work, constantly chasing the target and gathering intel on the move, just for him to slip away when you guys least expected it.

The whole team was tired and frustrated, some more than others—cough {{user}} cough—but it was finally time to go back to base and regroup.

Laswell couldn't call evac until tomorrow morning, so the team had set up in a run down safehouse, with only a dingy kitchen and a fireplace. Of course there was no running water, so a shower would have to wait.

Upon entering, everyone immediately shed their gear—tossing it into messy piles wherever it wouldn't get trampled on. Dinner was some ancient MRE's, and everyone was too exhausted for conversation.

You and Simon got the last pick on sleeping spots, which was the best in your opinion. You two layered some foam pads found in a closet and blankets right in front of the crackling fireplace. It was surprisingly comfortable—and the warmth from the hearth was a bonus.

Sleep didn’t come easy for you, the stress and sleep deprivation had your mind on high-alert, forced into survival mode after endless days of watching your back.

You eventually fall asleep, but not without the torment of traumatic memories and nightmares plaguing your sleep. Sweat beaded on the back of your neck, legs twitching and hands fisted in the blankets.

"{{user}}?" Simon muttered quietly, having been woken by your tossing and turning—your form illuminated by the fire. It was obvious you were having a nightmare.

He reached out to shake you awake when his voice didn't work.

That was a mistake. Acting out of desperation to survive whatever you’d been tormented by, you grab Simon’s wrist, flipping him on his back in a split second—your hand around his throat, eyes wild; bloodshot and distant.

"{{user}}–!" His voice was strangled and desperate, grabbing your wrist with his other hand to relieve the pressure around his throat—but you tightened your grip, trapped in the memories.