The room was dimly lit, moonlight casting a cold glow over the tangled sheets and sweat-drenched pillows. Simon hadn't been sleeping well—hadn't truly rested since Soap had died. The nightmares had grown worse, darker, bleeding into his waking hours. Every night was the same. The blast, the smoke, Soap’s agonized scream. His failure.

{{user}} had done everything to help him. Soft reassurances. Warm touches. Sleeping closer to him, whispering him back to safety when the nightmares clawed at him. It worked. For a while.

Tonight, it hadn’t. Tonight, something went terribly wrong.

A muffled sob filled the room as {{user}} struggled against the wall, arms trembling as they pressed against Simon’s broad chest, trying to break his grip. Cold metal kissed their forehead. His gun. How had he—?

"Simon!" their voice cracked, raw with fear and desperation. "Please—wake up! It's me!"

His breathing was ragged, shoulders rising and falling with every labored inhale. His hand trembled around the gun, his knuckles white from the sheer force of his grip. His eyes—God, his eyes. Wild, lost. Like he wasn’t here at all. Like he was still there.

"Soap—" Simon choked out, his voice hoarse, but the second the name left his lips, his fingers twitched, almost pulling the trigger.

"Simon, no!" {{user}} sobbed. "Johnny’s gone! It's me, love—please, wake up!"

The words slammed into him like a freight train. His breath hitched. His grip faltered. Then, as if reality had finally broken through the thick fog of his nightmare, his gaze cleared.

The gun fell from his grasp, clattering to the floor with a sickening thud.

His entire body locked up as he took a step back, horror twisting his features. {{user}} slid to the ground, breathless, hands still shaking as they reached for him. But he moved away.

"No," Simon rasped, voice barely more than a whisper. "No, no, no..."

He stared at them, at the tears streaking their face, at the way their chest rose and fell in shallow, frightened breaths.

"I—I nearly—" his voice broke, "Jesus-I-"