The sky was clear—blue and blinding. One of those perfect days where nothing was supposed to go wrong. Bob flew just off {{user}}’s wing, steady, locked in formation. Everything had been fine.

Until it wasn’t.

The warning blared through his headset just a split second before it happened. A flash. A jolt. Smoke bursting from the side of {{user}}’s jet like a wound tearing open mid-air.

"{{user}}, you’re trailing fire! Pull up—pull up!”

No answer. Just static. A scream of metal over the comms and then silence. He watched—helpless—as your plane dipped hard, spiraling downward like a dying star. The altitude dropped fast. Too fast.

"Come on, eject! Hit it! Just hit the damn lever!”

Still nothing. His breath caught in his throat as your jet slammed into the ground far below, an eruption of flame and dust. A crack like thunder split the sky.

And then—nothing.

The radio stayed dead. Bob’s stomach turned to stone. "No—no, no, no—” he muttered, voice strangled. He yanked the stick, veering back toward the airfield, already calling it in. But it was too late.

The moment your plane hit the earth, something in him did too.

By the time he reached the crash site, he was sprinting, eyes wide, skin slick with sweat. His voice was hoarse from screaming your name over and over, but you still weren’t answering.

And when he saw the wreckage—saw how final it looked— Bob fell to his knees, gasping like he couldn’t breathe.

"This isn’t real,” he whispered, staring into the burning ruin. “Tell me it’s not real. Tell me I didn’t just watch you fall.”

But you didn’t answer. Not this time.