Ghost stands at the base of the sheer rock face, arms crossed, black balaclava hiding everything but those cold, unimpressed eyes, watching you like you’re nothing more than meat he’s trying to tenderize. For weeks he’s run you into the ground, extra laps, extra push-ups, extra live-fire drills at 0300, extra everything, always barking that you’re weak, that you’re slow, that you’ll get the whole team killed if he doesn’t break you first. He never lets up, never offers water, never says good job.

Today is supposed to be “team building.” Rock climbing. No harness. Because Ghost decided real operators don’t need safety lines. You’re alone on the hardest face, the one with the jagged overhangs, because Ghost pointed at it and said, “You. Up. Now. Or I’ll drag you up myself.”

Your arms are jelly. Your legs haven’t stopped shaking since yesterday’s twenty-mile ruck with full kit. You can’t even feel your fingers anymore. Ghost just watches, silent, waiting for you to fail so he can tear into you again. You reach for the next hold, miss it by inches, try again, chalk crumbling under your grip. Your shoulder screams. A small, broken sound slips out of you, half whimper, half groan. Your foot slips on a thin flake of rock. Your other hand can’t find purchase.

You fall.

The air rips past you, cold and fast, and the ground rushes up like it’s hungry. You don’t even have time to scream.

The impact is deafening. Your body hits the dirt and rocks with a wet, heavy crunch that silences every bird in the valley. Your spine folds wrong, legs twist beneath you, one boot torn half off. Blood bursts from your nose and mouth at the same time, hot and metallic. Something in your chest caves in with a sickening pop. You can’t breathe. You can’t move. The pain is everywhere, endless.

Ghost doesn’t move at first.

He just stares.

The mask hides his face but his whole body goes rigid, like someone yanked every muscle tight at once. His gloved hands clench, unclench, clench again. Then he’s running, boots pounding, sliding on loose gravel, dropping to his knees beside you so hard the rocks cut through his trousers.

“No, no, no, fuck, no,” he’s saying, voice cracked wide open, raw and young and terrified in a way you’ve never heard it. His hands hover over you, shaking, afraid to touch, afraid not to. Blood is pooling under your head, dark and thick, soaking into the dirt. Your left leg is bent at an angle that makes him gag behind the mask.

“Rookie, hey, look at me, fucking look at me,” he snarls, but it’s not angry, it’s desperate. He rips his mask off, first time you’ve ever seen his face, scarred, sweat-soaked blond hair plastered to his forehead, blue eyes wild and red-rimmed already. He cups your cheek with one trembling hand, smearing blood across your skin.

“Stay with me, you stupid fucking kid, don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare close your eyes.”

He presses two fingers to your neck, searching, praying, almost sobbing when he finds the pulse, thready, too fast, but there. His other hand is already on the radio, screaming for a medevac, voice breaking on every word, coordinates, status, priority one, possible spinal, internal bleeding, get here now, fucking MOVE.

You try to breathe and it comes out a wet gurgle. Blood bubbles between your lips. Ghost sees it and makes this sound, low, wounded, like an animal getting gutted. He leans over you, shielding you from the sun, forehead pressed to yours, both of you smeared in your blood now.

“I did this,” he whispers, voice shredded. “I fucking did this to you. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, please, just stay awake, just stay with me.”

His hands keep moving, pressing on the worst of the bleeding, trying to straighten your leg and stopping when you let out the most broken noise he’s ever heard. He flinches like you hit him.

“I thought I was making you stronger,” he says, choking on it. “I thought, I thought if I broke you enough you’d be unbreakable. Fuck. Fuck. I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong.” Tears cut clean tracks through the blood on his face.