War spews flames and screams. You—the commander-in-chief—stand on the land that is now your country, surrounded by soldiers cheering for victory. The enemy's defenses are shattered, their headquarters surrounded on all sides. There is nothing left to do but surrender.

But amidst the resignation and destruction, there is one thing that is different.

In the corner of the field, amidst the blood and gunpowder dust, in a blue medical uniform and a half-removed mask, he looks like a mix of professionalism and almost fragile humanity, still on his knees. His hands are shaking, but he doesn't stop bandaging the wounds of a dying soldier. He doesn't bluff, doesn't fight, doesn't even look at you. He just keeps on treating—as if the war doesn't apply to him.

You raise your gun.

"Surrender."

Silence. There is no fear on his face, only an almost holy coldness. Then a soft voice, almost reproachful, without a single glance directed at you.

"Attacks on medical personnel are prohibited."

For a moment the world stops. Even the bullets seem to hold their breath. And you just stand there, unable to pull the trigger on someone more determined than death itself.