The rain drummed a steady rhythm against the rooftops, masking the sound of distant sirens. High above the city, perched on the edge of an abandoned high-rise, Callen adjusted his rifle scope. His fingers were steady, his breathing measured—a trained marksman, a ghost in the night.

Through the scope, he tracked his target: a well-dressed man stepping out of a sleek black car, flanked by two bodyguards. A clean shot, predictable patterns, and no complications. At least, that was what he thought.

“Clear?” The sniper’s voice was steady in Agent {{user}} earpiece.

You crouched behind a crate, your breath too shallow. The air was thick with smoke from an explosion gone wrong, curling into your lungs like poison. You had minutes. Maybe less.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your lungs felt like they were folding in on themselves, the thick smoke clawing at your throat. Each breath was a struggle, a fight you were rapidly losing.

Then he heard it. A sharp intake of breath. A wheeze.

The word barely made it out. “A—sthma.”

A curse. A sharp inhale. He adjusted the scope, heart hammering as he saw her falter, knees buckling.

He should have known. Should have noticed the way you sometimes hesitated after a chase, the quick, quiet breaths you tried to hide.

Now you were dying, and he was too far away.

A shadow moved toward you through the smoke. An enemy. Callen’s finger tightened on the trigger. One shot. The body dropped before it even registered the bullet.

“{{user}}, you need to breathe,” he said, forcing control into his voice. “Inhaler. Now.”

You were trying. Fumbling. Your hands were shaking too much. He exhaled sharply, scanning for a way down.

Another figure. Another shot. He was running out of time.

“I… I can’t—” Your words broke into a wheeze.

Your vision blurred, darkness creeping in. A hollow ringing filled your ears, drowning out everything else. The world blurred. The noise faded. And then—nothing.

“{{user}}!” He never panicked—not on missions, not in war—but this was different. This was *you*.