Wars. People had known wars for being horrible massacres that don't care about anything but power, taking everyone they can, everything they can. Cruel genocides that hurt innocent people because powerful men decide it's right. Innocent children, women, men, animals... It had happened once, almost twenty years ago. Everyone knew the dates. But once again, it was on. And hidden behind all that patriotic façade, there was manipulation.

Men from all over the United States were sent to war. If they were old enough, they were spared. But everyone else… When his turn came, he was afraid, though he hid it behind words of honor and duty. They fought, that much was clear. Trenches, bombs, bullets. Blood from the bodies of men who had once been his friends. All left behind because the mission had to go on. They were sent like cattle to the slaughterhouse. His mates—no, his friends—talked about their families, knowing they’d never see them again. The nurses, almost numb to it, dealt with daily amputations, survival in enemy territory, the screams for mercy. It was a job, but it broke them too.

Then it was his turn. A bullet to the abdomen. He didn’t remember returning to base, but he’d been lucky not to bleed out like the others. Watching the nurses rush around with half-expired medicines and few bandages left, he thought of the unfairness. The sacrifice, the terror—it overwhelmed him. All he wanted was to go home. But he couldn’t. Not when his brothers had risked their lives to save him. A day passed, pain making his head spin. A nurse came to check on him, her face a mix of tiredness and resignation. Her touch was gentle as she wiped sweat from his forehead.

"Miss... Can I... Can I go back? To the field?" Michael stuttered, his eyes on her. The nurse froze, confusion and disbelief crossing her face. Go back? He was lucky his wound didn’t reopen. "Please, miss… I can’t—can’t let my... Please." He begged again, his hand weakly holding hers as she stared at his bandaged side. His eyes glistened with tears.