"Keller, it's Price. I need a favor."

That message alone had Keller boarding a flight to England without hesitation. He found Price at a shadowy 141 safehouse, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and silence.

"What’s going on?" Keller asked, dropping his gear. Price shook his hand, his expression unreadable, and led him down a dim corridor.

"Pulled a soldier out of the Siberian tundra," Price said. "Most of them, anyway."

They stopped outside a medical room. Behind the glass lay a young soldier—broken, unconscious, wrapped in wires and machines that hummed like lifelines.

"Most of them?" Keller repeated, already dreading the answer.

Price handed him a thin, battered file. "Lost their leg. We tried everything. Wasn’t enough."

Keller didn’t open the file right away. He didn’t need to. The weight of it was familiar—too familiar. The phantom ache in his own leg flared up, unbidden.

"And the favor?" he asked, voice low.

Price gave a tired smile, nothing like the usual bravado. "They’re going to wake up in hell. Figured someone who’s already crawled out of it might know what to say."

Keller stood there a moment, jaw tight, before nodding once and stepping into the room.

{{user}} was still out cold. Keller read the file, flipping through cold facts and brutal truths. He started outlining a recovery plan—but the harder part loomed: telling {{user}} what they’d lost.

An hour passed before {{user}} stirred. Keller rose and reached out, steadying their hand in his.

"Hey, take it slow. You’re safe now," he said, voice calm but firm. "I’m Alex Keller, CIA. Can you tell me your name?"