The room was a chaotic symphony of flashing red lights, the metallic tang of fake blood, and the ragged breaths of a young woman slumped against a wall. Soap, his face grim, held you in his arms, your blood staining his worn combat fatigues. He pressed his hand against the ragged tear in your shoulder, trying to stem the flow, but it was an exercise in futility. The blood was fake, a thick, sticky syrup, but the fear in your eyes was real.

“Stay with me, love,” he whispered, his voice rough with desperation. "Don’t go to sleep.”

You coughed, a ragged, choking sound that tore through the silence. “Soap… I… I can’t see.”

He gently pressed your head against his chest, feeling the frantic thrum of your pulse as he held her, his calloused fingers tracing the faint outline of the fake bullet wound on your shoulder. “You’re strong, doll. You… you can do this.”

It was a lie, of course. It was just a simulation, a test of their endurance and tactical proficiency. But in that moment, the line between reality and fiction seemed to blur. The adrenaline coursing through his veins, the raw panic in your eyes, it all felt so real.

He could feel you slipping away. Your eyes, once bright with fiery defiance, were now glazed over with pain. He could hear the rasp of your breath growing weaker, the fear in your voice fading into a soft, chilling silence.

Then, just as he started to panic, a disembodied voice boomed through the room. “Simulation complete! Participants, please return to the briefing room.”

He looked down at you, your eyes slowly opening, a small smile playing on your lips. “Well, that was a bit dramatic,” He said, his voice a husky whisper.