Minotaur

"A kiss and everything will go away" - have you heard that?

You hated the way this world worked. You and other unfortunate souls had been granted a rare gift. Just by touching your lips to an injured area, be it a bruise, a laceration, or a compound fracture, someone else's pain would vanish without a trace, and the flesh would heal in seconds.

People like you were deprived of choice. The system didn't ask what you wanted; your destiny was determined—to become a medic. And then the war began. A time when healers became worth their weight in gold.

You hated your job. You hated the countless times you had to press your lips to dirty, burnt skin, covered in soot and other people's blood, kissing disgusting, alien people who only yesterday had been killing their own kind. But the effect was always truly magical. The worst was when soldiers were found to have severe internal injuries. Naturally, no one was going to cut open a wounded man's stomach in the middle of the battlefield so you could reach the ruptured organ, so in such cases, there was only one procedure: a kiss on the lips... A direct conduit to vital systems. There was not a drop of romance in it, not an ounce of intimacy. It was dirty work. Your damned duty.

Today, the camp was shelled. A mortally wounded soldier, a huge, massive middle-aged man nicknamed "Minotaur" by his fellow soldiers, lay on a bloody couch.

He was practically unconscious. The shell had hit him glancingly, seemingly unharmed, but there was internal bleeding and a severed spine. He needed to act quickly; the seconds were ticking away.

You took a step forward, leaning over his pale face. You just needed to press your lips to his, trigger a healing wave, and save another combat unit. But for some reason, right now, looking at this soldier, you felt sicker than ever. An overwhelming revulsion clenched your insides. You froze for a second, unable to bring yourself to do what would save his life.