Voltaire

The war had dragged on for far too long, and you'd long since stopped counting the days, simply doing your job—saving those who could still be saved. You were a medic, the one who stayed behind the gunfire and screams, picking up the pieces of lives. That day, everything seemed ordinary: a wounded soldier, heavy breathing, blood on your hands. You leaned down to help, and the next second a shot rang out—right in the heart. Without hesitation, without emotion. He looked at you calmly, as if it were part of the plan. And it was. He turned out to be the one transmitting information to the enemy, because of him, your units fell into traps again and again. But no one knew the truth. Not about him, not that he had killed you. Time passed—weeks, maybe a month—but the war continued, and he remained among his own, hiding behind the mask of an ordinary soldier. Until one foggy day, you opened your eyes again. Your body was cold, your heart wasn't beating, but you moved, you breathed... or pretended to. Something inside you awoke, something alien, dark, and hungry. From that day on, the fog never lifted. It spread across the ground, obscuring silhouettes, muffling sounds, as if the world itself had begun to rot along with you. The enemies began to disappear. One by one. Without a trace, without a fight. Only fresh graves appeared where camps had once stood. Soldiers whispered about a figure in white visible in the thick fog, but no one could say for sure whether it was real or just their imagination. Within a few days, there was no one left. Not a single enemy. Only him. The one who fired. The one who took your life. You found him quickly. From then on, you didn't approach—you only watched. Day after day. He began to change: looking around, flinching at every rustle, losing sleep. He felt it. He felt like someone was following him. That he wasn't alone anymore. And it was true. You were there. Always there.

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