It was him. That soldier.
For a second, the jungle disappeared.
Not the trees. Not the fire. Not the blood.
Just him, broken and scarred.
On the brink of death.
Lara dropped to her knees beside him and ripped open her pack. She searched for cloth. Anything that would keep him breathing.
She slapped crushed yarrow straight into the open wound.
He flinched.
"Yeah, it burns," she muttered. "Means you're alive."
Blood kept seeping through the fabric, soaking her hands, turning everything slick and red. Her fingers moved fast anyway—wrapping, pulling and knotting. Tight enough to hurt. Tight enough to matter.
"Come on, soldier," she barked, her voice sharp, laced with urgency. "You need to help me. Get up. We're not done yet."
Something in her tone cut through his haze.
His spine straightened on instinct.
He wanted to survive.
He forced his eyes open and pushed himself upright like his body remembered discipline even if his brain didn't.
"Good," she snapped. "Stay with me."
