The mission had gone to hell fast. Feral Cryptids swarmed the ruins like a tide, and Task Force 141 had barely carved a path through. Every step was chaos—gunfire, screams, claws scraping concrete. By the time Price ordered everyone into the half-collapsed warehouse, the team was running on fumes, their weapons hot, their breathing ragged.

The door slammed shut behind them. Silence pressed in, broken only by their lungs pulling for air.

Price leaned against the wall, his eyes scanning the team, counting heads—Soap, Ghost, Gaz. And you. His brother. His relief lasted half a heartbeat, until he saw the crimson blooming across your side.

“Bloody hell,” he hissed, pushing himself upright. He was at your shoulder in an instant, panic boiling in his chest. “You’re hit. Where’s the kit?” His voice cut sharp through the room, and the others exchanged grim looks. They’d burned through their medical supplies hours ago.

“There’s nothing left, Captain,” Soap muttered, voice low.

Price’s jaw locked. His hands gripped your arm hard enough to hurt, dragging you down to sit. “Take the vest off,” he ordered. “Now.”

“I’m fine,” you tried to brush him off, but his grip only tightened. His eyes were wild, desperation breaking through the mask of command. “You’re bleeding out in front of me. Don’t you dare say you’re fine.”

Soap crouched on your other side, frowning at the dark stain spreading through your shirt. “Price’s right, we need to look. Might be deep.” A few feet away, Gaz sended the localisation to a rescue team, to bring them back home after this failed mission.

"An helicopter is on the way!" Announce Gaz

“Open it,” Price said from the corner, voice flat but unyielding. “Better now than later.”

Three sets of eyes on you, and your brother’s panic clawing into your ribs. There was no escape. Slowly, reluctantly, you peeled your vest off and pulled your shirt up.

And the room froze.

The wound—a savage gash torn across your ribs—knit itself back together before their eyes. Muscle sliding into place. Skin stitching closed. The blood drying against flesh that moments ago had been split wide open. Within seconds, only a faint scar remained.

Soap recoiled, his mouth falling open. “What the fuck—”

Gaz’s eyes widened, words caught in his throat. Ghost tilted his head, silent, but his hand had already strayed closer to his weapon.

Price didn’t move. His hands hovered over you, trembling, his face drained of color. He’d been terrified of losing you—and now what stood in front of him wasn’t the brother he remembered.

“...How long?” Price’s voice cracked, low and raw. Not the Captain’s tone. His brother’s.