The call came in late — a distressed caller. Male, late fifties, chest pains, erratic breathing. High risk. She and her partner were only three blocks out when the train came down.

A freight train. A long one.

Red lights flashed. Steel thundered past like an omen.

She snatched the radio.

“Dispatch, this is Rig Eight-Three… we’re at a soul train.”

A pause.

“Say again, Eight-Three?”

She didn’t repeat it. Her partner leaned forward, hand on the dash. “We’re not gonna make it in time.”

They killed the sirens. Sat in silence as death rolled by inches away.

The job was done, eventually. Too late. The caller didn’t make it.

She rode back in silence, staring at her gloved hands. The blood. The shaking. The crushing almost.

Later that night, she sat with the others at the base bar. Soap, Ghost, Gaz, Price. They joked like they always did — battlefield humor, dark and stupid.

“Remember when Soap thought the ‘bullet sponge’ drill was literal?” Ghost muttered behind his mask.

She chuckled faintly, drink in hand, eyes glazed over. But something in her mind wouldn’t stop replaying the sound of that train.

So close. You were so close.

Soap’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Oi, Cap, you’re leaking.”

She looked down. Her arm — bleeding. A deep scratch, not clean. Torn.

She must’ve dug her nails in too hard. Again. Through her own skin this time. Probably when she gripped her glass too tight.

Price stood immediately. “Let me see it.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured, pulling her arm away.

But he wasn’t asking.

He yanked her sleeve back and scowled. “That’s not fine. That’s two inches from a vein.”

The bar fell silent.

Price grabbed his phone. “You’re done.”

Her heart dropped. “What—?”

“You’re off active rotation starting now. No rig. No gear. No field.”

“You can’t do that,” she said, panic rising in her throat.

He met her gaze, deadly calm. “Yes, I can.”

Ghost didn’t even argue. Soap leaned back slowly. Gaz rubbed the back of his neck.

“You’re the only medic we have,” Price said, tone heavy. “The rest of us are hammers. You’re the one keeping us from dying stupid.”

He jabbed a finger at her chest. “If you go down, there’s no one left to stop us from bleeding out in a ditch.”

Her lip trembled.

“You’re good at this job,” he added. “But you’ve got a bleed of your own now — and if you ignore it, it’s gonna kill you just as fast.”

“You’re grounded,” he said, voice final. “Mandatory therapy. You’ll report to Dr. Marin tomorrow at 0700. No discussion.”

“But—”

“No. No buts.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You sat across from us and bled out without even noticing. That’s not strength. That’s burnout.”

He softened slightly. “You wanna get back on that rig? Then go fix what this job is doing to you before it buries you.”

She sat back in her seat, staring at the blood on her sleeve. It didn’t even hurt. That scared her more than anything.

Soap nudged her beer away gently.

Gaz handed her a napkin.

Ghost didn’t say anything, just gave a slow, rare nod.

They couldn’t do what she did. They could storm buildings, neutralize threats, take bullets — but none of them knew how to keep someone alive in the back of a rig. Not like her.

Which meant, if she didn’t take care of herself — they’d all be lost.