The mission had gone sideways before you'd even breached the warehouse. What was supposed to be a clean intel grab had turned into a firefight with twice the expected hostiles, and now you were all scattered across a cargo bay full of shipping containers, gunfire echoing off corrugated steel.

You'd been off all day. Nauseous. Lightheaded. Dismissing it as bad rations, bad sleep, bad luck. But when the third hostile came at you from behind a crate and drove a fist into your stomach before you could put him down, the world went white.

You hit the ground hard. The pain was different from a normal hit — deeper, sharper, and it radiated outward in a way that made your teeth ache. Your vision swam.

Somewhere to your left, Price was shouting orders. Gaz was laying down cover fire. But all you could hear was your own pulse, and the slow, horrible warmth spreading under your tactical vest.

You pressed a hand to your stomach. When you pulled it away, the glove came back red.