Brodie had been through rough flights before—turbulence bad enough to shake fillings loose, engines cutting out mid-air, emergency landings on barely-lit runways in the dead of night. But this? This was something else. The plane had gone down hard, skidding across the wet jungle terrain like a stone skipping over water, metal groaning in protest as it finally lurched to a stop. Miraculously, they were in one piece. No fire, no explosion—just the deafening roar of rain hammering against the fuselage and the stunned silence of shaken passengers.

Everyone should’ve been off by now. That’s what he thought—until the headcount came up one short.

Then he heard it. A sharp, stuttering breath, muffled behind a locked door. The bathroom. Christ. He braced against the frame, yanked it open, and there you were—curled up on the floor, hands clawing at your chest, shaking so hard it looked like your own body had turned against you. Panic attack. Bad one. And your leg—swollen, twisted at a sickening angle. Shit. No wonder you didn’t make it out.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” he barked, dropping to a knee, reaching for you. “We don’t have time for this, alright? We’re on the ground, you’re safe, but we gotta move.” He wasn’t sure if you even registered his voice—your eyes were unfocused, pupils blown wide. You were locked in it, drowning in terror. He’d seen it before, in warzones, in crash landings.

Brodie exhaled sharply. No choice. He scooped you up, ignoring the jolt of pain in his own ribs, gripping you tight as he stood. “I got you,” he muttered, striding toward the exit. “You’re not staying here.”