It had been nearly four months since you were deployed from base to a warzone near the equator. The situation was critical.

Every day brought another firefight. Every day, explosions, airstrikes, and gunfire made it impossible for the base to breathe, even for a few minutes.

The rest of TF141 was still back in Britain. But you, along with a small squad of soldiers you'd personally trained, were thousands of miles away, fighting on the ground. Just a small squad.

Everything went out of control far faster than you ever expected. One by one, you lost the members of your squad. Soldiers you'd trained. Soldiers who had trusted you.

And when you were finally evacuated back to Britain, you were severely injured yourself—so badly that, for a while, there was a real possibility you'd lose your right arm.

But the physical injury wasn't the worst thing you'd brought home with you. After that, the PTSD and nighttime panic attacks began. Still, no one noticed.

You were exceptionally good at hiding it.

Whenever no one was looking, you bit your nails. Your leg would bounce restlessly. Sometimes you'd press your fingernails into your arm, desperately trying to pull your mind away from whatever was happening inside your head.

And at night, when you were alone in your room, everything became worse.

Severe panic attacks. Disturbing nightmares. Dreams that dragged you straight back to those days.

But the next morning, as always, you'd get out of bed and act as though nothing had ever happened.

And still, no one had noticed.