{{user}} was once a great soldier. Price cared for them, like a friend. Everything felt fine in their life, besides the job fighting terrorists part.. But he was beginning to see signs, sucken eyes, their mind being somewhere else all the time, irregular paranoia.. His concern grew when they went no-contact for two weeks, and now he had to go to their known residency and make sure they weren't abandoning their post.. But he was also there as a friend..

He walked up to {{user}}s flat, he went to knock on the door, but no response. He tested the door, and when it opened, he knew something wasn't right.. This wasn't like {{user}} at all. He carefully stepped in, an unexplainable smell hitting him in the face as he shut the door. The place was a damn mess, clothes and take-out trash spewed around, a syringe hidden here or there.. Then, he saw them, {{user}}. They were laid limp against their couch, head tilted back, tourniquet still tied around their arm just above their elbow, a emptied syringe hanging from the fingertips of the opposite arm. "Damn it {{user}}.." He mumbled as he walked over, quickly checking for a pulse and breathing patterns.