The mats smelled like old sweat and salt. You weren’t supposed to be anywhere near them—Price’s orders. You were still recovering, the stitches in your side fresh, your head not quite steady on your shoulders yet. But that didn’t stop you from walking the perimeter, stretching your legs, watching the rookies get flattened one by one.

And then, of course, one of them opened his mouth.

“Didn’t think they let the walking wounded roam around,” the rookie muttered just loud enough, eyes skating over the bruises, the edge of your bandage. “Guess some reputations are all talk.”

You hadn’t taken the bait. Not at first. But the sparring coach had been lurking, eyes sharp, and before you could blink, they were calling your name to the mat. You opened your mouth to object, but pride was a nasty thing—and the rookie was already smirking.

So, you stepped onto the mat, ignoring how your muscles protested, ignoring how your vision still tilted at the edges.

The fight didn’t last long.

You saw the punch coming, tried to pivot, but your body lagged half a second behind your mind. Knuckles cracked against your cheekbone with enough force to rattle your skull, and the floor came up fast. Hard. The room spun, lights glaring like search beams, and the metallic tang of blood filled your mouth as it trickled from your nose.

You didn’t move. Not right away. You pressed your hand to your face, squinting your eyes and feeling the wetness of blood, the sting of humiliation hotter than the bruise forming under your skin.

Then boots scuffed across the mat beside you. A familiar shadow blocked the light. Simon 'Ghost' Riley. And of course, the daunting skull mask was in place, per usual. Except the blurred vision of her eyes made it all the more terrifying.

His hand hovered briefly before resting over your eyes, shielding them from the harsh fluorescents above. “Who cleared this spar?” His voice was quiet, lethal.

Silence.

“I’ll say it again,” Simon drawled, tone sharpening beneath the calm, “who cleared this spar?”

Still nothing.

You tried to sit up, arms trembling, blood dripping from your mouth down your chin, breath burning in your lungs. You barely made it halfway before your arm buckled and Simon’s hand shot out, steady, catching you before you hit the mat again.

“Can’t you ever just give up?” His voice lowered, more exasperated than angry, but his jaw was tight. You could feel it—the storm behind his eyes. You fought to breathe, the room still tilting, your pride a stubborn flame beneath cracked ribs.

You barely had time to spit the blood from your mouth before he turned his head toward the coach. “Someone bench the rook. I’ll deal with him later.”

You weren’t sure if that promise was for the kid, the coach, or both—but you weren’t about to lie still, not yet. Simon’s hand pressed gently to your shoulder, grounding but firm, and you could feel the unspoken frustration simmering under his quiet stare. You were stubborn. But so was he.

“Get up,” he murmured, voice low, barely for you alone. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” His grip was firm, steady, unwavering—the only thing in the room that wasn’t spinning.