The bar was loud and warm, the kind of place soldiers melted into after a clean op. Cheap lager, sticky floors, a jukebox playing something with too much bass. Task Force 141 had claimed a corner booth, and for the first time in weeks, nobody was watching exits or counting rounds. Soap was mid-story, arms wide, nearly knocking Ghost's pint over. Gaz was grinning into his glass. Price had one arm draped over the back of the booth, half-listening, half-watching the room out of habit.

Y/n had been quiet for a while now.

The glass sat loose in their fingers. The noise of the pub seemed to smear, words bending into a low, distant hum. The lights looked too bright at the edges, like the room was breathing. Their head dipped once, then again, like a rope going slack.

The banter was easy, familiar. But Price was already turning, the laugh lines around his eyes flattening.

He clapped a hand to Y/n's shoulder. Nothing. No flinch, no blink, no lazy grin. Just a slow tilt of the head, eyes glassy and unfocused.

The whole booth went still. Price didn't answer. He reached past Y/n and picked up the glass, tilting it under the dull light. The liquid inside was cloudy, a faint swirl of sediment settling at the bottom. His jaw tightened.

Price hooked an arm under Y/n's, careful but firm, pulling them upright. They were dead weight, barely there, head lolling toward their chest.

The jukebox kept playing.