The light is sterile and humming. Somewhere overhead, something beeps in a slow rhythm—steady, indifferent, clinical.

  She tries to open her eyes, but only one cooperates. The other feels glued shut. Her throat is dry. No, raw. Like something had been shoved down it.

  The air smells like antiseptic and gauze. Clean. Too clean.

  She panics.

  Her body jerks—or tries to. A sharp spike of pain slices through her leg. Her arms don’t move. Her ribs scream.

  There’s a sound—a chair scraping. Then a voice. Calm. Low. Male. Familiar?

  "Hey. Hey, easy now. You're safe. You're in a hospital. With us."

  She doesn’t understand. Her mind is still foggy, floating. Like the painkillers are holding her underwater.

  She blinks again. Slowly. The ceiling above is smooth, white, real. Not the gray concrete void she'd expected. Her breath catches.

  "I—" she tries. But it doesn’t come out. Just a rasp.

  Her commander leans into view. Kind eyes. Tired.

  "They had to intubate you. You’ve been out for two days. But you're stable now."

  Two days. It hits her like a wave. Her mind starts catching up. The cigarette burns. The floor. Her teeth.

  Her teeth.

  She tries to lift her hand to her mouth, but she can’t. She makes a choked noise. Her body vibrates with restrained panic.

  “They’re going to fix what they can,” the voice says gently, like he knows what she’s reaching for. “You’re not alone, Brat.”

  The nickname slices her heart open. It’s the first thing that feels like her since—

  Since.

  Her chest hitches.

  She closes her eye and lets the tears come—not loudly. Not even visibly. Just the kind that leak out when you can’t hold them anymore, and it hurts to feel anything at all.

  She thought the pain would stop when they pulled her out.

  She was wrong.

  The hospital stay was the easy part. All she had to do was lie still and not die. Nurses fluttered around, machines beeped, IVs dripped, and Brat floated somewhere in between—too drugged to scream, too shattered to pretend she wasn’t already halfway gone.

  But when the machines stopped, when they pulled the tube out of her throat and wheeled her into the light of a “real” room, it began.

  Physical therapy.

  It was grueling. Every step was a war.

  The cigarette burns had damaged the skin on her neck and collarbone to the point where scar tissue pulled too tight if she moved wrong. They'd used some kind of torch on her scalp, and a patch of hair on the back of her head just never grew back. It was invisible under hair but it was still there. A silent reminder.

  One side of her ribcage stayed tender. A nerve, they said. Could’ve been from the break. Could’ve been from how hard they kicked.Could’ve been from being kept on the floor for so long her body started forgetting how to lie straight. Might go away later. Might stay there forever.

  The worst were the teeth. Or the lack thereof.

  They’d shattered her top front four. Knocked them out after she bit one of them hard enough to make him scream like a stuck pig. The dentist had been kind, at least. Said she had “good bones” for implants.

  She smiled at that. A rare thing.

  Still, the process was slow. Healing gums. Temporary dentures. Final fittings. For a while, she wouldn’t even look in the mirror.

  And therapy—gods, therapy was worse.

  She hadn’t asked to talk. But they made her. One of the conditions for getting clearance. Psychological fitness. Emotional clearance. She had to “process.”

  So she sat, week after week, in a sterile office that smelled like carpet glue and institutional lemon wipes, while a woman with a soft voice and expensive glasses asked her things like:

  “Do you feel safe now?”

  “Can you tell me what you remember?”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  Brat wanted to scream. To flip the chair. To throw the tissue box across the room and shout: “It made me feel like I was going to DIE, Karen!”

  Instead, she smiled. Crookedly. The way she used to.

  “I feel great,” she said. “Wouldn’t recommend the spa, though.”

  The psychologist scribbled something and didn’t laugh.

  And then there was the clerk.

  She wasn’t even trying to hide it. The little remarks. A glance at Brat’s neck—where the cigarette burns had healed into discolored, uneven blotches—and a not-so-subtle sneer:

  “They’ll have to keep you out of deep-cover ops with those. Bad lighting won’t hide it.”

  Brat didn’t answer. Just walked out. Quiet. Stiff.

  That night, she found a permanent makeup artist. Former medtech. Specialized in paramedical tattooing. Camouflaged the worst of it. Not perfectly. Not enough for Vegas lighting. But close.

  Her shrink signed off. She passed her requal.

  Her CO approved reactivation with “moderate restrictions.” She was officially, medically, combat capable.

  Four and a half months.

  And the whole time, they were gone. Her team. Deployed. Somewhere in the jungle. No messages. No contact. No debrief. Just—gone.

  She told herself it was better this way. They wouldn’t have to see her like this. Not while she was still limping and drooling blood from her fake teeth and waking up every night in a sweat that smelled like scorched flesh and copper.

  But now—

  Now she was ready.

  Brat stood in the mirror in the locker room, back on base. Standard issue tee. Standard pants. Hair pulled low over the scar. Makeup barely needed anymore—just some blending around her throat.

  She looked normal.

  Or as close as she was gonna get.

  She walked out.

  And nothing—

  Nothing in all the surgeries, the rehab, the screaming into pillows, the hours of carefully-crafted sarcasm—nothing prepared her for the way her team looked at her when they saw her again.

  She expected a reunion.

  Not balloons or hugs or some tearful homecoming—but definitely a punch on the shoulder. A grin. Some dumbass quip like,

  "Took you long enough, Brat. Thought you were just dragging it out to get outta paperwork."

  She would’ve killed for that.

  But when she walked into the hangar—dressed sharp, fresh patches on her uniform, new teeth in place, scars camouflaged, spine straight like it never broke—what she got instead was silence.

  Not the quiet of focus. Not the lull of surprise.

  This was held breath.

  This was eyes that flicked away too fast.

  This was the space between pity and guilt, and it made her want to crawl out of her skin.

  Stone, their sergeant, the one who used to greet her with a playful “Oi, Rat Brat, cleaning your lady again?”—he stepped forward like he was approaching a bomb.

  “You look good,” he said, too soft. Too careful.

  Like if he raised his voice, she'd crack.

  She wanted to scream at him. Say it like you mean it, damn you. Say it like you used to.

  Kells—tall, wiry, usually the first to crack a joke—just stood there, hands in pockets, chewing the inside of his cheek. Wouldn’t meet her eyes. Neither did Mara or Voss. Not really.

  Someone started clapping. It was weak. Tapered off almost immediately.

  "What the hell is this?" she thought. "A funeral?"

  They meant well. She knew that.

  But gods—it was like they were looking at her through glass.

  Like she’d shatter if they breathed too hard.

  The worst was during sparring.

  She’d fought to get cleared for it. Pushed her physical therapist to the brink. She needed this—needed to feel normal again. And this was part of it.

  Brat stood on the mat in her sports bra and fatigue pants, sweat slick on her back. The room smelled like sweat and chalk and adrenaline. Her place, her normal.

  The first match was with Voss. He hesitated before circling. Kept his strikes half-hearted. Didn't grab her left side—the scarred side. Barely touched her at all.

  “C’mon,” she said. “I won’t break.”

  He smiled. The wrong kind of smile. The one you give a child who just said something too serious for their age.

  By the time Stone called it, her fists were clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white.

  Next match, Kells did the same. Telegraphed his moves. Held back. She caught the look Mara gave him over his shoulder—silent warning. Be gentle. Don’t hit her too hard. Don’t bruise her. Like she was made of paper.

  And the thing that ripped her heart out?

  None of them bantered.

  No insults. No playful swearing.

  No her.

  They didn’t see her anymore.

  Not really.

  Not the way they used to.

  They saw the aftermath. The victim. The broken thing they found in a cage.

  And that—

  That was so much worse than all the pain, the scars, the therapy, the clerk’s bullshit, the way her jaw still ached when she ground it too hard.

  Because these were her people.

  And even they had forgotten who she was.

  She tried.

  Gods, she tried.

  At first, she gave them the benefit of the doubt. They just needed time, right? Time to adjust. Time to remember that she was still her.

  So she joked.

  She smirked.

  She called Kells a bootlicking mother hen when he tried to carry her gear for her.

  She snapped at Voss for treating her like a wounded kitten during combat drills.

  She even threw a jab at Mara—“Did your voicebox break, or are you just afraid I’ll burst into tears if you sass back?”

  Silence.

  Always that damned silence. Followed by a soft chuckle or an awkward smile that didn’t reach anyone’s eyes.

  And it wasn’t just words.

  Every time she tried to do something that used to be hers—running recon, leading room clearance drills, checking intel feeds—they stepped in. Took over. “To help.” “To give her time.” “To ease her back in.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  They didn’t say it, but she heard it anyway:

  We don’t trust you to do this anymore.

  We think you’ll break.

  We can’t unsee what they did to you.

  And Brat?

  Brat started to burn.

  At first, it was a low simmer. An ache in her chest. A pressure behind her eyes. She cried once. Alone. In the mess, lights off, fists clenched on a metal table. Just one sob. That’s all she allowed herself.

  But then came the training incident.

  They were running a breaching drill—routine, clean, textbook. She’d been point for that op a dozen times before. But just as she reached the door, Stone barked an order:

  “Brat—fall back. Kells, take lead.”

  She froze mid-step.

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Kells, go.”

  That sting. That hot slap of humiliation. In front of the whole damn team.

  Later, she cornered him. Alone. Gloves off.

  “What the hell was that, Stone?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  “Just playing it safe.”

  “Safe? I’ve done this op more times than I’ve had hot meals—”

  “Exactly.” His voice was gentle. Patronizing. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

  She almost decked him.

  That night, she sat in her bunk, shaking with rage.

  You don’t have to prove anything.

  Then what the hell was she fighting for this whole time?

  She survived hell. She crawled out of it. Piece by piece, she rebuilt herself. She did the therapy, the physical agony, the sleepless nights, the endless flashbacks, the goddamn clerk’s remarks about her face. She ticked all the boxes. She showed up. She stood tall.

  And they still saw her as broken.

  No.

  Not broken.

  Worse.

  Fragile.

  That’s what they saw.

  Not a soldier.

  Not a teammate.

  Not a fucking operator who clawed her way back from death.

  They saw porcelain.

  With a pretty little sticker: Handle with care.

  And it all came to a head during a standard field drill—nothing fancy. Full gear, full weight, full sweat. One of those exercises where you’re expected to be sharp, fast, brutal.

  She was halfway through a simulated evac—body drag, full pack, breathing like a bull—when Reyes came up behind her.

  Cocky. Same rank. They used to banter, used to flirt a little in the field—not like seriously, but the way soldiers do when death’s a constant and levity is rare.

  “Hey, let me—” he started, already reaching for the straps of her pack.

  “I’ve got it,” she grunted, adjusting her grip.

  He didn’t stop. Pulled it from her shoulders like she was a child struggling with groceries.

  “Don’t be stubborn, Brat. You’ll pop a stitch or—”

  “Don’t touch my shit.”

  That got his attention. The others looked over. The whole drill slowed down, not stopped, but slowed—like even the air had shifted.

  “Jesus, calm down. I’m just—”

  “Stop treating me like I’m some fucking porcelain doll, alright?”

  Her voice cracked through the air like a bullet.

  “I’ve been through worse than this. I don’t need your fucking babying, you dick. Get out of my face.

  I’m capable. I can handle my shit.”

  Silence.

  Like a punch had landed and no one knew who’d thrown it harder—her or the memory of her bloody body on the floor that still haunted them.

  Reyes stepped back. Hands up. Expression tight, embarrassed. He looked like a kid who just got yelled at by his favorite teacher.

  The rest of the squad froze. Not out of fear, but confusion. Guilt. Because some of them agreed with her—and some didn’t. Some still couldn’t help but see the scars and flinched anyway.

  Stone, approached slowly. Measured steps. He wasn’t angry—but he wasn’t placating either.

  “Enough,” he said, voice low. Neutral.

  “Back to the drill. Brat, with me.”

  She almost refused. But then nodded once, sharp and furious, and followed.

  They walked a few meters off, just enough distance for privacy without isolation.

  He didn’t speak for a moment. Then, quietly:

  “You’re not wrong.”

  She blinked. That wasn’t what she expected.

  “They’re still figuring out how to be around you. You’re not the only one learning how to walk again.”

  She snorted.

  “I’m not learning to walk again, Stone. I’m trying to remind them I didn’t fucking die.”

  He looked at her for a long beat.

  “No. You didn’t.” He folded his arms. “But we thought you had.”

  “Well, I didn’t. I’m here. I showed up. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “It does. It’s just… You’re fighting a ghost. The memory of you—broken. That’s what they saw last. That’s what stuck.”

  “Then unstick it.”

  He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her — and this time, really looked. Not as her commanding officer. Not as her handler. But as someone who’d seen too much and still hadn’t figured out how to carry it all.

  “You can’t even imagine what you looked like,” he said at last, voice rough. “Not really. You were barely conscious. Face swollen, one eye sealed shut, lips split open. Blood soaking through your shirt like it was stitched into the fabric. Hair half burned. Teeth missing. Bones weren’t where they were supposed to be. You’d bit halfway through your tongue. I thought you were already dead when I saw you. We all did.”

  He swallowed hard, his throat working.

  “And then you made this sound,” he said. “Barely audible. A whimper, or a gurgle maybe. A breath. But it was the worst thing I’ve ever heard. Because it meant you were alive, and that meant you’d felt all of it.”

  Brat didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

  Stone kept going.

  “We weren’t just pulling a teammate out. We were pulling you out. And you weren’t you anymore. You were unrecognizable. You were all broken skin and shaking hands and eyes that wouldn’t focus.”

  He stepped back, like the memory had weight and he was trying to shake it off.

  “I see that version of you every time someone says your name. And I’m not even the worst one. The others? They see it, too. That’s what they’re bracing for, every time you walk in a room. Not because they don’t trust you. But because they remember what it was like to almost lose you.”

  Silence stretched. Brat stared at the ground; her hands balled into fists at her sides.

  Then—soft, biting.

  “Well, fuck. No pressure, right?”

  Stone’s mouth twitched. “No pressure.”

  And for a moment, they were just two people standing in the ruins of something that hadn’t finished falling.

  For a while after that, things went... quiet. Not tense. Not dramatic. Just muted.

  Training continued. Drills happened. Missions went on.

  But the air had changed.

  They still greeted her. Still used her callsign. Still asked for her input in ops meetings and handed her gear without hesitation. But the soul of the team—banter, inside jokes, the subtle camaraderie that made their unit feel like something more than a job—that had gone cold.

  They were walking on eggshells, and she was the eggshell.

  Brat noticed it all. How Reyes wouldn’t meet her eye. How Diaz didn’t nudge her shoulder like he used to when they passed in narrow corridors. How Jax, who used to throw friendly jabs about her combat boots being too clean, now stuck to polite silence.

  And the worst part?

  She couldn’t force it. So she stopped trying.

  She showed up. She did her job. She wore her professionalism like a mask.

  And one afternoon, after a long dry-fire exercise, Stone called her in.

  His office was the same as always—plain, functional, no bullshit. Just like him. But this time, he didn’t sit behind the desk. He leaned against it, arms crossed, and looked at her with a weariness she hadn’t seen before.

  “Close the door.”

  She did.

  He waited a beat looking at her, studying.

  “You’re an outstanding soldier,” he finally said. “No one’s questioning that. You’ve proven it over and over. But the way things are going with the team… it’s not working. Not the way it needs to.”

  He paused, choosing his words carefully.

  “I’ve seen how the others are treating you—trying to help, but crossing lines they don’t understand. God, I understand why. And I’ve seen how it’s affecting you. You’re pissed. You should be. But it’s starting to mess with cohesion, and we both know that’s dangerous.”

  Her jaw tensed.

  “So what,” she snapped. “You’re benching me now?”

  Stone shook his head.

  “I’m not benching you. I’m offering you a transfer. Somewhere your skills won’t just be recognized—they’ll be relied on. Task Force 141’s got a slot. High-intensity work. Global reach. Real shit. They need someone like you.”

  She blinked.

  TF141?

  Her stomach dropped, but she kept her expression neutral. Mostly.

  “So, you’re kicking me out,” she said flatly.

  “No,” he said, evenly. “I’m giving you a way forward.”

  She laughed once, bitter and low.

  “Funny. Sure feels like being cast aside because I make the team uncomfortable now.”

  Stone didn’t flinch.

  “You deserve better than to be anyone’s pity project. And they deserve to work without the guilt hanging over their heads. It’s not a punishment. It’s a damn recalibration.”

  “You’re just tired of babysitting,” she muttered to stubborn to admit he is right.

  “I’m tired of seeing one of my best operators wasted in the wrong environment,” he replied, voice harder now. “You’ve been through hell, Brat. That’s not the part that worries me. It’s what comes after. Where you go next.”

  She looked away; arms crossed tight.

  “You think they’ll treat me any better over there?”

  “I think they’ll treat you like a weapon,” Stone said. “And I think you need that right now.”

  A long silence.

  “When?”

  “Two days,” he said. “If you agree.”

  She nodded once.