The final stretch to the outskirts of the building was a blur of gritted teeth and pounding footsteps. The compound groaned around you, its structural integrity crumbling with every distant explosion. Smoke stung your eyes, and the metallic tang of blood clung to the back of your throat. But you pushed forward—because stopping wasn't an option.

Then, like a mirage in the chaos, the exit loomed ahead.

And there they were.

Price stood like a bastion of stability, his ever-present cap shadowing his sharp gaze as he scanned the wreckage for your team. Beside him, Laswell clutched a tablet, her expression unreadable but her posture tense with anticipation. The moment your group staggered into view, Price's shoulders relaxed—just slightly—before he strode forward to meet you.

"Sent an evac as soon as I heard," he said, voice gruff but steady. His hands clamped onto your shoulders, grounding you as his eyes zeroed in on the haphazard bandage wrapped around your forearm. The fabric was already dark with seeping blood.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"Come on, lass," he urged, low and firm. There was no room for argument—just that undercurrent of quiet concern, the kind that only surfaced when things had gone sideways enough to rattle even him. Behind him, the distant thrum of an approaching helicopter grew louder.

Laswell stepped forward, her sharp eyes flickering between your team and the collapsing building. "Where's Romanov?"

Ghost shoved Milena forward, her bound wrists making her stumble. "Still breathing," he growled. "Unfortunately."

Price didn't smile. Just gave a curt nod. "Good. Now let's get the hell out of here before this place turns to dust."

SCENEBREAK

The med tent hummed with the sterile buzz of fluorescent lights and the quiet clatter of instruments being arranged. The scent of antiseptic hung thick in the air, sharp enough to make your nose twitch as you settled onto the cot. The doctor—a wiry man with tired eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor—peered at your forearm through smudged glasses before letting out a long, world-weary sigh.

"If it's all right with you," he said, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves, "I'll do this. You keep your stings inside, okay, Ms. Gojo?"

You huffed, flicking a strand of long white hair over your shoulder with your free hand. The nickname wasn't lost on you—Gojo. A relic of your past, a name that carried weight in certain circles. The doctor knew. Of course he did.

"Yes, sir," you muttered, flexing your fingers as he prodded at the wound.

Across the tent, Ghost leaned against a supply cabinet, arms crossed. His mask was off—rare for him—but his expression was as unreadable as ever. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his impatience.

Soap, ever the chatterbox, perched on the edge of an adjacent cot. "Stings, eh?" he mused, grinning. "What, like a bee? Or are we talkin' something more... exotic?"

The doctor didn't look up. "Something like that."

You shot Soap a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. "Shut up, MacTavish."

Ghost finally spoke, his voice a low rumble. "Doc's just making sure you don't accidentally dissolve his sutures."

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Ha!" Soap barked out a laugh. "Knew it."

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. "Just stitch me up before I change my mind about behaving."

SCENEBREAK

Night fell like a heavy curtain, the exhaustion of the day pressing down on you until your limbs felt leaden. By the time you stumbled into your tent, you were barely clinging to consciousness—only to freeze in the doorway, your fatigue evaporating in an instant.

There, sprawled across your bunk with infuriating ease, was Gojo.

Your older brother lounged like he owned the place, one arm tucked behind his head, the other idly flipping a playing card between his fingers. His signature glasses caught the dim lantern light as he tilted his head to look at you, a lazy smirk playing on his lips.

"Oh, hey, Kiera," he said, voice dripping with faux casualness. "Heard you had a tough op today." The card stilled between his fingers. "I told you not to die on me."

A hot wave of frustration surged through you. "And where the hell have you been?" you hissed, fingers curling into fists at your sides. The bandage on your forearm throbbed in time with your pulse.

Gojo sat up in one fluid motion, crossing his arms over his chest. His smirk didn't waver. "Out on missions, just like you, little sister." He shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "What, did you miss me?"

You wanted to strangle him. Wanted to scream. Instead, you kicked the tent flap closed behind you with more force than necessary. "You vanish for weeks—no comms, no check-ins—and now you're just here like nothing happened?"

His expression shifted, just slightly. Something darker flickered behind his glasses before it vanished, replaced by that same infuriating grin. "Aw, you did miss me."

"I swear to god—"

"Relax," he interrupted, standing in one smooth motion. He reached out, flicking your forehead with a finger. "I had my reasons. And I'm here now, aren't I?"

You batted his hand away, but the fight was draining out of you, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. Gojo's smirk softened, just a fraction, as he nudged a canteen of water toward you.

"Drink. Then sleep," he ordered, tone brooking no argument. "We'll talk in the morning."

For once, you didn't have the energy to protest.