The blast came fast—no warning, just fire, pressure, and the feeling of the world shattering inward. Ghost barely remembered how he got to her. One second they were clearing the second floor of the target building, the next he was dragging {{user}}s limp form through smoke and broken glass, praying she was still breathing.

Now they were on the bird, and she was alive. But something was wrong. He’d known it the second she opened her eyes and didn’t react to anything around her. Not to the roaring of the rotors. Not to the medics shouting. Not even to his voice—her name, called over and over like a lifeline.

“{{user}}?” he said again now, louder this time. Nothing. Her eyes flicked to him, glassy but alert. She was watching, but she wasn’t hearing. Ghost leaned closer. Her head tilted slightly, but she flinched when his hand brushed her shoulder. Not fear—confusion. She mouthed something. Can’t hear you.

His stomach twisted. He tried again—slow, clear words, even though she couldn’t catch them. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she shook her head. Then she pointed to her ears, her eyes filling with something he rarely saw in her: panic. It hit him harder than the blast had.

He tore a notepad from his vest, scribbled something down with a hand that wasn’t as steady as it should’ve been. You’re okay. We’re heading home. You’re safe.

She read it, and her expression crumpled just slightly. She blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. She was always the strongest one in the room—his sergeant, his partner, his girl—but now she looked small. And for the first time since he’d known her, {{user}} looked lost.

He wanted to say a thousand things. I’m here. I’ve got you. We’ll fix this. But all he could do was write again. I know. We’ll figure it out. Together.

She looked up at him, and he could see her fighting it—fighting the terror, the frustration, the grief of what was already slipping away. Ghost sat beside her, pulled her close. No words. Just warmth. Contact. A steady presence in the void.