The mission ran clean. No casualties, no complications. Intel secured. The kind of operation that made command smile and the paperwork easy.

The van’s engine rumbled to life as the team piled in. No celebratory energy. Just the quiet hum of professional exhaustion and the occasional clatter of gear being adjusted. Your German shepherd hopped in first, settling at your feet with a huff.

You climbed in after, finding a spot against the cool metal wall of the vehicle. The doors slammed shut. A moment later, the van rolled forward, heading back to base.

Beside you, the others were already settling into their own rhythms. Ghost sat near the back, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the floor. Soap was cracking his knuckles, watching the road through the small front window. Gaz leaned his head back against the side of the van, eyes half-closed. Price was up front, talking low with the driver.

Your dog shifted, resting her head on your boot. The vibrations of the road hummed through your bones.

The world blurred at the edges.

Your head dipped, and before it could hit the floor, a hand—steady, practiced—caught it and guided it down. The conversation around you didn’t pause.

A few seconds later, your body began to seize.

Without alarm, someone repositioned you onto your side, keeping your airway clear. The conversation continued, low and unbothered.

The van kept moving.