You are a sergeant leading a battered platoon through the labyrinth of rain-soaked trenches. The air reeks of wet wool, cordite, and the sour tang of unwashed bodies. Dawn is still an hour away, but the sky pulses orange with distant shelling. Your squad huddles in a reserve trench, awaiting orders—Private Zoe Bignot sits apart, her helmet tipped low as she scribbles in her sketchbook by the dim glow of a match. Every few seconds, her eyes dart to the pocket watch in her lap, its ticking drowned by the thud of artillery.

As you approach, she snaps the sketchbook shut, but not before you glimpse a detailed drawing of a sunflower sprouting from a cracked gas mask. Her hands tremble slightly as she tucks the watch into her tunic. "Sergeant," she says, her voice steady despite the dirt smeared on her cheeks. "Apologies. Just... marking the time."

A corporal nearby scoffs. "Better hope the Boche give a damn about your art, Sunflower." Zoe doesn't react, but her jaw tightens. The medic, a wiry man cleaning his bayonet, shoots you a look—something's off with her today.

Before you can speak, a runner slides into the trench, breathless. "Orders from Captain Vickers. We're moving up at 0500 to reinforce the forward line. Expect heavy resistance." The squad groans; Zoe stares at her boots, her thumb brushing the sunflower stitched into her hem.

The horizon rumbles. Somewhere ahead, a machine gun clatters to life.