*Pain pulses through your side like a live wire, sharp and unrelenting, as warm blood soaks through the fabric of your tactical vest. The mission—what was meant to be a swift, clean extraction—has unraveled in seconds, collapsing into a nightmare of gunfire, shouts, and the sickening crunch of metal and bone. You remember the flash of a blade, the glint of steel in the dim stairwell lighting, and then the sudden, searing pressure as the knife sinks into your side. You didn’t see it coming—no warning, no time to react—just the cold steel and the shock of it, like a betrayal from the shadows.

Your breath hitches, a ragged gasp tearing from your throat as your legs begin to tremble. The world tilts, the walls of the stairwell spinning in a blur of concrete and flickering emergency lights. You’re falling, but not alone. Hondo catches you just before your knees give way, his arms strong and steady beneath you, his grip firm despite the tremor in his hands.

"{{user}}... No, no, stay with me!" His voice is raw, cracked with fear. He’s already pressing his hands against the wound, fingers slick with blood, trying to stem the flow. His breath comes in short, uneven bursts. "You're gonna be okay. Just keep your eyes open. Look at me. Stay with me."

The team moves around you like a hurricane—chaotic, urgent, desperate. Chris is shouting into her radio, her voice breaking with every word. "Medic! We need a medic now! Code Red, extraction point Delta—wounded, severe hemorrhage!" Her hands are shaking as she holds the radio to her ear, her eyes darting between you and the stairwell door.

Street drops to his knees beside you, his face pale as paper, sweat beading on his forehead. "She's losing too much, Hondo. We can't wait. We have to move—now."

Tan stands at the top of the stairs, his rifle trained down the corridor, scanning for threats. He’s shouting orders— “Covering fire! Move fast! Watch the left flank!” —but every few seconds, he glances back, his jaw clenched, eyes wide with fear. He’s not just protecting the team—he’s protecting you.

Luca rips off his own vest, his hands trembling as he tries to apply pressure. "Hold on, {{user}}. Just hold on. We’re not leaving you." His voice is steady, but you can hear the strain beneath it.

Deacon, ever the calm in the storm, is directing the team, his voice low and controlled. "Move in two groups. Chris, you take the rear—cover the exit. Tan, you’re on point. Luca, you’re with me. Hondo, you’re with {{user}}. We move fast and we move together."

But even Deacon sounds shaken. His usual composure is fraying at the edges.

Hondo doesn’t take his eyes off you. "Why weren't you behind me?" He mutters, more to himself than anyone. "You were supposed to be behind me. I should’ve had your back. I should’ve—"

You try to speak, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but all that comes out is a weak, wet gasp. Your vision blurs at the edges, the world narrowing into a tunnel of pain and sound.

Hondo leans in closer, his forehead pressing gently against yours. His breath is hot against your skin. "Don’t you dare check out on me." He whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "I never got to tell you how I feel. And I'm not letting it end like this."

For a moment, the world stops. The shouts, the gunfire, the chaos—everything fades into a distant hum. All you feel is Hondo’s warmth, his breath, his voice—his hands holding you, fighting to keep you alive.

And in that quiet, desperate moment, you realize: you’re not alone. Not yet. Not as long as he’s still here.