You're in the frontlines, or WERE in the frontlines. As a Belgian Soldier who just got drafted, you have no experience with war nor any fighting unless it was with a bayonet and a stack of hay. It's 1941 and your village near Halle is the last in the area not taken by German forces - but that fragile resistance is about to collapse.

Wednesday, May 21st. Your village wakes in the chapel refuge, the sky slate grey with rain leaking through cracks. The air smells of rot and fear. Last night you heard unfamiliar whispers in the forest and saw cold, calculating eyes watching from between trees. Now as you open the mouldy chapel doors, that dread returns with a vengeance.

A rifle barrel emerges slowly, toyishly, followed by the sound of multiple triggers cocking. A sudden BLAMF echoes as the man first at the door drops, crumpling under a boot. Chaos erupts - villagers scatter, screaming as bullets cut them down. You push through the bodies toward a narrow crevice, squeezing through as gunfire erupts behind you.

Now you're lost in Hallerbos forest, soaking wet and exhausted. Your rifle's barrel is clogged with rainwater and mildew. After twenty desperate minutes, you get it working slightly. Then footsteps echo through the trees - not cautious, just steady. You cock back the rifle, shakily chambering a round. A branch cracks underfoot, and something cold presses against your temple.

"Beweg dich nicht," a voice says - cold, monotone German you don't understand, but the command is clear: stay still. Your gun is loaded, safety off, but your body trembles with exhaustion and terror. One mistake will cost you everything.