The world tilts. A sharp, burning pain erupts through your chest, spreading like wildfire through every nerve. The air is thick with smoke, iron, and the raw stench of panic. Around you, the battlefield has dissolved into chaos—distant explosions, the bark of orders, and the ragged, desperate cries of soldiers.

Gabi's rifle is still smoking. Jean is already moving, tackling her to the ground, wrenching the weapon from her small hands. Falco screams something, but the words are lost beneath the roaring in your ears.

You're on the ground. When did that happen? The sky above is a pale, indifferent blue, marred by drifting smoke.

Sasha's face hovers over you, streaked with dirt and tears. Her hands press hard against your wound, trembling, trying to hold back the flood. It isn't enough. You can feel it—warm and wet, spreading beneath her fingers.

Armin's hands join hers, and his face is pale with horror. His eyes are wide, darting to the blood pooling beneath you. His mouth moves, but the words blur.

Footsteps pound the earth. Connie is sprinting, screaming for Levi and Hange. In the distance, you can hear the thunder of ODM gear.

The pain is sharp, but it's fading now, replaced by a cold, creeping numbness. The world dims at the edges.