The mission had gone to absolute shit.

It was supposed to be a relatively simple extraction. Now it was the worst operation the Avengers had experienced in months. Comms had failed, their backup never arrived, and to top it off, the entire building had become a rather unfortunate collection of collapsing concrete and enemy combatants.

But they were out. Fucking finally, they were out.

The remaining team gathered near the extraction point, scattered across the concrete. Everyone looked like shit—torn uniforms, bruises, dirt-covered faces, enough complaints to fill an entire afternoon.

Steve Rogers stood near the entrance of the quinjet, catching his breath as he looked over his teammates. He counted once, then again, his eyes moving from face to face.

Steve gave a small smile. For all the chaos, all the destruction and everything that had gone wrong, they had managed to get everyone out. Everyone was here. Everyone was standing. Everyone was—

Steve turned.

And there you were. A few metres behind them. Standing completely still.

Your head was slightly bowed, one hand pressed against your upper stomach. Your other arm hung loosely by your side, and your breathing looked strangely laboured.

At first, nobody understood what they were looking at. Then Steve noticed the blood.

It had spread across the front of your tactical gear, dark against the fabric. More was beginning to collect beneath your hand, and a small trail had already found its way down to your fingertips. A drop landed on the concrete. Then another.

You'd been fine. Well, not fine exactly, but you'd been standing. You'd walked out of that building. You'd made it to extraction. You'd just needed to get everyone out.

And now, apparently, your body had decided it was quite finished with that arrangement.

Your knees buckled.

The relief from moments ago was gone. Replaced by something cold and urgent.