The blast goes off before anyone can shout a warning.

Shrapnel slices through the air like it’s got a grudge, and you’re flung: back, sideways, maybe up. Hard to tell. All you know is your head meets concrete on the way down, and the world tilts like it’s suddenly had one too many.

You’re blinking up at smoke, shouting, boots hammering past. The noise is strange: muffled, like you’ve been stuffed underwater. You’re still here. Mostly.

Soap bursts into view like a man who sprints into trouble for sport. He drops into a crouch beside you, scanning for blood with the brisk precision of a soldier but the wide-eyed panic of someone who actually gives a damn.

“Alright, c’mon now...eyes on me, bonnie, where are ye hurt? Talk t’ me.”

You squint at him, dry-mouthed, head still spinning, brain producing words on autopilot.

“Like a palm tree in a hurricane or a cow in a tornado… I’m just being spun around for cinematic value at this point.”

He freezes.

“…What in the fook' does tha' even mean?”

You blink again. Still spinning. Still here.

His expression pinches somewhere between laughter and alarm as he hauls you up against him, steadying your legs.

“Aye, right. Definitely concussed.”