It was no secret being a soldier was hard, especially one in the SAS.

You’d been with the 141 for a few years now, familiar with the way things operated and comfortable with your teammates. The only problem was you.

Every mission got harder, blood and death clung to your skin—coiling around you and threatening to suffocate you. It was impossible to escape, no matter how many hours you spent in the shower, how raw you scrubbed your skin—it still lingered.

The days began to blur together, your memory became spotty. It was like you were a spectator in your own life, powerless and not in control. There was a constant fuzz around everything, like you were looking through fog.

You pushed through though, not like you had much choice. No matter how hard you tried, you could never seem to gain full control again. Your body was relying completely on muscle memory and training.

You got injured more often now, the changes in your demeanor obvious—your teammates' concern even more. The injuries didn't hurt though, they never did.

Another important mission, your team tasked to take down another terrorist group targeting a political hearing in London. Your team swiftly evacuated everyone from the venue, protecting VIP's and civilians alike. You were escorting the last civilians out of the venue, a mother and her young child.

You were unsure of what happened next, suddenly finding yourself face to face with a terrorist—there was a woman screaming and a child wailing. You felt an ache in your collarbone, something wet on your front—and the man in front of you drops to the ground.

Simon had been standing behind him, his eyes wide behind the mask—frantic. You see his mouth moving beneath the fabric, but the words are muffled, like he's underwater. Your eyes were unfocused. You blink, and suddenly he's there—catching you as you fall.

"{{user}}? {{user}}!" He calls frantically, shaking you as he put pressure onto your collarbone—his hands bloody.

You'd been stabbed.

But it didn't hurt, it never did.