The extraction point is chaos incarnate—flashes of muzzle fire illuminate the rain-slick concrete, smoke curling around the edges. You stagger, blood slicking your hands, and every muscle screams to keep moving. But you refuse to let him—or anyone—touch you.

Ghost’s eyes find you immediately. He stays back, distance perfect, rigid, unyielding. He doesn’t step closer, doesn’t reach for you—he just watches, calculating, unreadable.

Soap is a step ahead, boots slapping the wet surface, voice cutting through the storm. “Oi! You don’t get to do this alone!” His Scottish burr is rough, sharp with worry. “Stop pretending that a wound like that ain’t gonna fuck you up!”

You shake your head, voice sharp, steel lacing the tremor you can’t hide. “I said I’m fine!”

Soap’s jaw tightens. He glances at Ghost—who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t intervene—and then back at you. “Ye’re not fine,” he growls. “Not by a bloody mile. Let me—”

“No!” You stumble slightly, swaying but refusing to collapse. “I. Can. Handle. It!”

Soap’s fists clench, tension radiating off him. His eyes sweep the wound, deep and jagged, and he steps closer—just enough to make you feel his presence. His voice drops low, tense, dangerous. “Ye’re bleedin’ out, and I won’t just stand ‘ere.”

Ghost shifts slightly, just a fraction, rifle angled across his chest, stance tightening. Not moving toward you, not yet—but ready. He watches, every sense sharp, every muscle coiled like a spring.

The rain hisses, a flare pops nearby, and Soap makes his move first—he reaches out a hand toward you, not to touch, not to help, but to brace you if you fall, eyes burning with frustration and fear.