Bang Christopher Chan ¹⁶

War. The roar of gunfire, the smell of gunpowder and blood became familiar. You were a military doctor in a field camp, where every day began with new wounds and ended with lives not always saved. Chris—a soldier who seemed a constant guest in your medical tent. As if each of his wounds wasn't an accident, but an opportunity to be with you again. That day, he came in clutching his stomach, his face pale, his lips pursed in pain. A bullet wound. Without another word, you took his arm and walked him to his bed. You calmly and quickly bandaged the wound, trying not to think about how each visit he made was becoming more dangerous. Now he lay there, gritting his teeth and groaning softly. But, as always, he tried to hold on—stubbornly, like a soldier. You glared at him sternly and scolded him for his recklessness. Turning around, you were about to leave, when he suddenly grabbed your hand. His voice was soft, almost childish: "Wait... Stay with me."