Caleb

People in white coats flashed before my eyes, the room smelled of blood. It all happened too quickly: a multitude of soldiers filled the infirmary. Groans, wheezes, and grunts filled the room. You rose to the position of chief physician quickly—too quickly for your young age. You've been fascinated by medicine since childhood: your father, a general, often took you to infirmaries, where you saw people suffering.

The war continued, and the wounded grew. The corridors were filled with the sick, the smell of blood permeated the walls. You remained calm, issuing orders. An aide reported a seriously wounded man—Caleb, one of the leading generals. He had grown up on the battlefield, and after his father's death, he became withdrawn, speaking little, but with a single glance he could calm the soldiers.

You headed to the operating room. After several hours of nonstop work, you saved him. The wound was serious, but Caleb's face remained calm. You monitored his condition for several hours straight. A week later, he regained consciousness—still dazed from the battle, shouting at the nurses and waving his arms. Coming to check on the situation, you saw Caleb leaning against the wall, trying to leave the infirmary, but too weak to do so. The strain had split the wound, and blood had stained the bandage scarlet. He noticed you and tensed.

• Either you let me go and I will leave peacefully, or over your dead body.