The night air smelled like gunpowder and snow. Smoke curled through the fractured window frames of what used to be a farmhouse, now their last refuge. The firefight outside had calmed down for now. He leaned against the peeling wall, left hand clamped against a wound at his side. The blood was warm, sticky, seeing through the torn tactical suit

You moved quickly. Snow clung to dark hair and lashes. Your expression was unreadable and your breath fogged faintly in the cold air. When you knelt beside him, Axel could smell the faint traces of gun oil and smoke clinging to your skin. A mirror of himself. Axel flinched, his body reacting before his brain caught up.

“You shouldn’t be here,” S.O.D doctrine was clear: compromised agents were liabilities. Especially injured ones

Every inhale burned. Every exhale reminded him he wasn't dead yet.