The weather hadn’t changed since yesterday—hot. The July heat hammered down on the running soldier, almost like punishment for the failed mission that morning. The crunch of gravel beneath {{user}}’s boots, the sound of Simon’s yelling, and the sharp smell of sweat and gunpowder filled the air.

Frozen. That’s what he was. {{user}} had frozen during the mission—bullets flying, people screaming, blood everywhere. Hectic. It was supposed to be simple—his first mission, in and out. His first real operation since being recruited. He had prepared every single day for it, training day and night, practicing his aim whenever he had the chance. He kept telling himself he was ready. That he could handle it.

Simon had warned Captain Price not to send him. Said he wasn’t ready. But Price insisted—said he needed to get out there.

Now {{user}} was running laps, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, shirt clinging to his body, legs shaking from the hour he’d already been running.

“Please,” {{user}} pleaded weakly again. He’d been at it for an hour and a half, and it didn’t seem like Simon was letting up anytime soon.

Simon’s eyes narrowed, fury simmering behind them. {{user}} had frozen during a mission—and that wasn’t allowed. It wasn’t exactly his fault; Simon had told Price not to send him. But still, he was angry. He didn’t train soldiers to freeze mid-mission—he trained them to be tanks. Reliable. But not {{user}}.

“Please?!” Simon snapped. “You froze! What do you think would’ve happened if I hadn’t been there to pull you out, huh?” he barked through gritted teeth.

And {{user}} knew he was right. If Simon hadn’t dragged him behind that wall, he wouldn’t have made it out alive.

“They weren’t gonna wait for you to cover!” Simon added harshly.

{{user}} panted, struggling to catch his breath as he ran, forcing the words out. “I know,” he managed.

Simon smirked coldly at that. “You know, huh? Good. Keep running until it’s burned into your skin, you got it?”

{{user}} tried to respond—but his legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed, body shaking, breath ragged, chest heaving.

Simon only smirked for a moment longer. But he wasn’t a cold-hearted monster. Eventually, he walked over and knelt down beside him.

“Look at you,” Simon muttered, tone lower now, not quite soft, but not yelling either. “You think the enemy’s gonna care if you’re tired? If your legs give out?” He grabbed {{user}} by the back of the shirt and lifted him into a sitting position. “Out there, hesitation gets you killed.”

{{user}} didn’t answer, his head hanging low, arms limp at his sides. Shame burned hotter than the sun overhead, mixing with the exhaustion in his bones. He hated this—hated how useless he felt, how small. How disappointed Simon looked, even behind the bite of his words.

But Simon’s voice shifted, barely. “You froze once. Fine. Learn from it.” He paused, eyes locking on {{user}}. “But if you do it again, if you freeze and I’m not there next time… you’ll be a body bag. And I’m not carrying your corpse home.”

The words hit harder than a bullet, but they weren’t meant to destroy him. They were meant to wake him up. Simon’s way of saying survive. Of saying prove me wrong. And despite the ache in every muscle and the bitter taste of failure in his mouth, {{user}} nodded.

Simon stood, towering over him, but this time he didn’t bark another order. He just stared for a long moment before finally muttering, “Get up when you can. Then go hit the showers.” There was no warmth in his tone, but something unspoken lingered beneath it—maybe understanding, maybe reluctant belief. As Simon walked off, boots crunching against the gravel, {{user}} stayed where he was, chest still heaving, but for the first time since the mission, his hands had stopped shaking.