The mission had gone sideways fast. What should’ve been a clean extraction in a back-alley sector of Prague ended in smoke, gunfire, and chaos. You’d been covering the rear with Ghost, your rifle steady despite the press of enemies closing in. One moment you were shouting into comms—

The next, the shockwave of an RPG tore through the narrow street.

Brick and steel rained down. You remembered Ghost’s arm shoving you aside, the crack of concrete splitting, then—nothing.

⸻

When you woke, it was weeks later. The lights were harsh, the smell of antiseptic clung to everything, and your body felt like it didn’t belong to you. Tubes, wires, the steady beep of monitors—all reminders that you were alive, but barely. The doctors said the head trauma was severe. Memory loss, confusion. Even simple things like swallowing water felt foreign.

They called it a miracle you’d survived at all. But survival came with a price.

⸻

Simon was there the first time you opened your eyes. Sitting in the corner of the hospital room, mask still in place despite the sterile walls. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched forward like he’d been keeping vigil for far too long. When your gaze flickered to him, his head lifted sharply, and though you couldn’t see his expression, you could feel the weight of his relief.

“’Bout time you woke up,” his voice was low, gruff, but softer than you’d ever heard it.

Price had checked in. Soap brought coffee more often than the doctors liked. Gaz had slipped in quietly to crack jokes, though his eyes always darted to the IV lines when he thought no one was looking. The whole task force had rotated through, each of them carrying guilt they didn’t put into words. But Simon—Simon hardly left.

The hardest part wasn’t the pain. It was the emptiness. The way names, faces, even the muscle memory of walking had been stripped from you. Every day was a new lesson. Every day Simon stood by, silent when you needed space, steady when you faltered.

Now, after weeks of rehab, you sat in the recovery ward, staring at a tray of food like it was a puzzle you couldn’t solve. Your hands trembled just trying to hold the fork. Simon leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed. Watching. Always watching.

“You’re doin’ fine,” he said finally, voice cutting through the static in your head. “Bit shaky, yeah—but we’ll get there.”

The words were plain, but you heard the we in them.