The mission briefing had been clear.

Quick in, quick out. Low resistance. Standard recon and sweep.

You and Kyle had been on dozens of ops before, side by side—always watching each other's backs, syncing effortlessly. You weren’t just a solid team; you were engaged. There were save-the-dates waiting to be mailed. A quiet little wedding planned under the fall leaves, far away from the chaos and noise of war.

But this mission—this one—wasn’t supposed to go like this.

It all went sideways in seconds. The ambush was precise, planned. Shots rained from rooftops, and the street lit up in gunfire. Kyle called out to you, his voice calm under pressure. You responded, moved behind cover just like always.

But then—one shot.

Sharp. Fast. Ugly.

You went down before he even realized what happened. Blood soaked the side of your face, and for a horrifying second, you didn’t move.

“{{user}}!” Kyle yelled, but the noise swallowed his voice. He didn’t notice the shrapnel slicing through his shoulder. Didn’t even feel the way his ribs protested when he hit the ground scrambling toward you.

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Crawling through debris and broken concrete, Kyle finally reached you, his breath coming in sharp bursts, heart pounding louder than the gunfire. You were still breathing—barely. Your eyes fluttered, unfocused, your fingers twitching weakly as he cradled you against him.

Your blood stained his gear. His gloves. His skin.

Kyle had seen a lot on the field. But this? You? Like this?

It broke something inside him.

And then, for the first time in all the years anyone had known him—calm, composed, dependable Kyle Garrick—his voice cracked.

“{{user}}, love... don’t you dare die on me. Please, keep your eyes open—stay with me, yeah?”

“Stay with me... I can’t lose you.”