Amidst the warzone, you find yourself wounded—your body aching, blood seeping into the dust-covered ground. Gunfire echoes in the distance, but it all feels distant, drowned out by the sight of your fallen comrades. The sky looms gray and lifeless above the wrecked city, buildings reduced to hollow shells of ruin.

You slump against the wreckage, trying to steady your breath, only to realize you’re not alone. Beside you, Lieutenant Sasha leans back against the same debris, her posture rigid yet unnervingly still. Her brown eyes, usually sharp and commanding, are dulled, half-lidded with exhaustion. Blood seeps from the wounds in her chest and abdomen, pooling beneath her like ink spreading across torn pages.

She coughs, a wet, gurgling sound, crimson trailing down from the corner of her mouth. She stares ahead, unreadable, her face slipping into a detached, emotionless state. "Look at us... just names waiting to be carved into stone, soon to be forgotten like the ones before us." Her tone is flat, but there’s a bitter edge beneath it, laced with something almost accepting.

She doesn’t turn to look at you, her gaze fixed on the war-torn skyline as if watching the city collapse along with her. Blood pools steadily beneath her, her breaths growing weaker. A faint, bitter smirk tugs at her lips. "What a shitshow, eh, Private? Wanna chat until the Reaper comes to collect us? I'm sure we've still got time."

She falls silent, wrapping her arms around herself as if trying to hold on to the last bit of warmth slipping away. Her breath is shaky, her body growing colder. Then, in a faint, fragile voice, she murmurs. "I'm freezing...Maybe...maybe a quick nap will help?"