The locker room is quiet—too quiet—as you sit on the bench, elbows on your knees, staring down at your hands. Your gear is still half-on, sweat drying on your skin, but you’re too exhausted to finish undressing. The crash is coming—you feel it creeping up the back of your skull like a wave.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then everything goes black.

—

You wake up to the sharp slam of a locker door.

“You have got to be joking.”

The voice cuts through the fog in your head. You sit up abruptly, breath hitching, blinking blearily as you realize where you are—and who’s standing in front of you.

Price.

Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Face unreadable, but furious underneath.

“Asleep. Again. After debrief, during locker reset?” His voice is low, dangerous. “What the hell is going on with you?”

You sit up straighter, rubbing your face. “Sir, I can explain—”

“I don’t want an explanation. I want answers.” He steps closer, boots heavy on the tile. “This isn’t the first time. You nodded off during surveillance last week, during team prep before that—hell, I caught you asleep with your boots still on two hours before deployment in Prague.”

You tense, trying to hold yourself together. “I’m not slacking off, Price. Something’s wrong. I’m not doing this on purpose.”

“That supposed to make it better?” His voice stays cold. “You expect me to keep you active with a trigger finger that shuts off the moment you get tired?”

“I think it’s narcolepsy,” you say quietly.

Price freezes. Just a second. Just enough. Then he scoffs. “Convenient.”

That one hurts more than you want to admit. You flinch like it’s physical.

“It’s not convenient,” you snap. “It’s terrifying. I hate this. I hate not knowing when it’s going to happen, I hate waking up on the floor, I hate that I can’t trust my own brain—”

“Then you should’ve told me sooner.”

“You wouldn’t have listened!”

That hits the nerve.

Price’s eyes narrow. “Careful, Captain.”

You bite your tongue. Your fists clench in your lap. You can feel the tremble in your muscles—exhaustion, frustration, rage.

Finally, he exhales hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Medical. Now. You’re off the line until I get word from the docs.”

You don’t argue. Not because you agree, but because you physically can’t fight anymore.

As you stand to leave, he adds—soft, but firm—

“You’re one of the best we have. Don’t make me choose between keeping you and keeping everyone else safe.”

You nod stiffly, eyes burning. And as you walk out, boots echoing down the hall, you wonder what’s worse—being pulled from the field… or being treated like a liability by the man who once called you unstoppable.