William

Before the war, your life was filled with simple joys, but with the onset of fighting, your hands became the only barrier between life and death. In the blood-stained hospitals, you became a combat medic, the color of your uniform faded, replaced by the red of open wounds. After yet another battle, you pulled a soldier from the rubble, not noticing his enemy uniform beneath the mud in the fog. Commander Alexander, with a steely grip, instantly recognized the man you'd rescued as an outsider. "Who brought this bastard here?" his voice thundered, causing the hospital staff to freeze in horror. Alexander called you out for a talk, and your excuses about smoke and soot only fueled his rage. To him, you were an enemy accomplice, handing over rations to the enemy while your own men rotted in the ground. Heavy, professional blows rained down, one after another, knocking the breath out of you. You fell to your knees, tasting your own blood and awaiting the final, crushing blow. A sudden, deafening shot ripped through the air, and the world around you seemed to slow. The commander staggered, a scarlet stain spreading across his chest, his face contorted in silent surprise. In the hallway, the same German stood unsteadily, his steady hand clutching the captured pistol. He stared at the falling body of your tormentor, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. You looked at him, and he looked at you, as the thread of fate tied itself into a tight knot amid the smell of gunpowder and bleach. The one you saved by mistake had just saved you deliberately.