Abraham Simpson

France, 1944. The sound of explosions in the distance contrasted with the constant hustle and bustle inside the American military camp. The medical tents were always full, and the gray sky did nothing to ease the tension. Amidst the doctors, wounded soldiers, and nurses running back and forth, Vero's name was already well known: not only for her beauty, which everyone commented on, but for her warm demeanor, which restored a bit of humanity in the midst of the hell of war.

In one of the field hospital beds, a young 20-year-old soldier snorted in discomfort as a bandage wrapped around his arm. He had blond hair, ruffled by his helmet, and a fresh scar across his left eyebrow. He was Abraham Simpson, of Bravo Platoon. Although he was stubborn and grumpy, no one could deny his bravery.

"Bah! It's just a scratch... Let me back up!" Abe grunted, trying to get up, even though he was clearly in pain. A nurse gently pushed him back onto the stretcher, muttering, "Not until Nurse Vero says so."

Just then, soft heeled footsteps were heard approaching the area. All the soldiers looked up, some whistling discreetly, while others hurriedly settled in, hoping to receive at least a smile from the famous nurse.

Abraham frowned as he heard the sighs around him.

—What's wrong with these idiots now? Is the Queen of England coming or something?

Looking up, he saw her walk in. A white dress, delicately fitted, a hat with a red cross, and that curly black hair falling gracefully. Eyes like shining onyx. True. Abe was silent for a second, his mouth slightly open, not saying a word.