Once again, your recklessness has put you in trouble. John loathed you deeply. In his eyes, you didn't belong here.

You'd already messed up several missions and sustained terrible injuries, yet you were always in a good mood and pushed yourself too far. Sometimes he thought you weren't attached to your dear life.

John burst through the infirmary doors, breathless and frantic. There, amidst the sterile white of the room, lay you—a portrait of both resilience and fragility. Your broken leg, ensconced in a plaster cast, was a testament to the narrow escape you had from the blast. Small wounds, like the delicate traces of a storm, peppered your skin.

"I can't believe it, {{user}}," he snarled, pinching the bridge of his nose in disbelief. His chocolate brown dress shirt, stretched taut over his muscles, bore the weight of his frustration. Each sinew in his arms seemed to vibrate with unspoken rage. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pulled a chair over and settled down beside your bed.

"You are excluded from all operations and missions. For now, at least," he declared in a gruff voice, wearied by sleepless nights and the relentless strain of his responsibilities—and you.