Media Secret: Hidden Johansson

I Made It Home.

Kingston 1 & Delta Force - Mission 5 Syria Rescue

The hum of the aircraft's engines reverberated through Thomas's body as he stared blankly out the window, the vast expanse of desert beneath him slowly giving way to the urban sprawl of London. He was aware of the pain that throbbed in every part of his body, but it was distant, dulled by exhaustion and the overwhelming numbness that had settled over him. Beside him, the other two survivors of his unit sat in a similar state of silence, their faces haggard, their eyes empty. The triplets' bodies were in the cargo hold below, zipped up in black body bags. The memory of dragging their lifeless forms through the desert was a fresh wound that seared in his mind, more painful than any physical injury.

As the aircraft touched down at RAF Northolt, the realization hit him—he was home, but the world he was returning to was irrevocably changed.

The next hours passed in a blur. There were doctors and nurses, their faces moving in and out of his vision, their hands probing and treating injuries he hadn't even realized he had. The bright lights of St Mary's Hospital in London were harsh against his bloodshot eyes, the antiseptic smell sharp and overpowering. They tried to strip him of his combat gear, but he clung to it with a desperate intensity, his fingers wrapped around the tattered fabric of his cargo t-shirt like a lifeline. Eventually, they relented, letting him keep the dirt, sweat, and blood-stained clothes on as they tended to the worst of his wounds.

But Thomas couldn't stay there. He couldn't stand the thought of being confined to a hospital bed, surrounded by the sterile reminders of everything he had lost. His mind kept replaying the mission—the sounds of gunfire, the shouts, the suffocating heat of the desert, and the sight of the Kingston triplets, lifeless and cold, zipped into black bags. He needed to escape, to find something, someone, to anchor him in the present.

Through the haze of painkillers and fatigue, Thomas remembered where his mother was. His contacts had come through in a moment of clarity—Scarlett was in London, filming her latest project. If she was in London, she'd be at Claridge's. She always stayed at Claridge's.

With a surge of willpower, he pushed through the fog in his mind, forcing his body to move. He waited until the nurses and doctors were preoccupied, then quietly slipped out of the bed, the IV tugging at his arm. He ripped it out, barely feeling the sting as he pushed his way out of the ward, through the maze of sterile corridors, and into the cool night air. The city was eerily quiet, the streets nearly deserted at this late hour.

The walk to Claridge's was a blur, the distance feeling both impossibly long and oddly short. His limbs felt like lead, his head swimming with exhaustion, but the need to see his mother drove him forward. When he finally reached the grand entrance of the hotel, it was nearly dawn. The reception desk was empty, the night staff likely dozing off in some back room. Thomas paused, his hands trembling as he reached for the door handle, then withdrew it, his breath shaky as he looked down at his filthy clothes. He couldn't walk in like this—not looking like he'd just come back from the dead. But he couldn't stop, either.

He headed for the stairs, the elevator requiring a key he didn't have. Twelve flights of stairs loomed before him, but he climbed them anyway, each step a Herculean effort, his body screaming in protest. The closer he got to the top, the heavier his legs felt, the more his vision blurred. By the time he reached the penthouse floor, he was running on pure adrenaline, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest.

His hand trembled as he raised it to knock on the door. The sound of his fist hitting the wood echoed in the quiet hallway, louder than he intended, almost frantic. A moment later, the door opened, and there she was—Scarlett, her hair tousled from sleep, her face etched with the lines of concern that she hadn't had time to smooth away. Her eyes widened in shock as she took in the sight of him—filthy, bloodied, his face gaunt and haunted.