The battlefield was a grim tableau of devastation, smoke curling into the sky from the wreckage scattered across the ground. The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the metallic tang of blood as you staggered through the aftermath, your body aching and bruised from the fight. The battle had been fierce, and the silence that followed was almost deafening in its finality.

You were one of the last survivors, your heart heavy with the weight of loss as you moved among the fallen, searching for any sign of life with your medical in hand. The bodies of your comrades lay where they had fallen, a grim reminder of the cost of war. Your breath was ragged, each step a struggle as you tried to hold on to hope.

In the distance, you saw a helicopter, its frame twisted and broken from a violent crash. It was an enemy aircraft, but something compelled you to approach it. Maybe it was a sense of duty as a medic, or perhaps a lingering hope that someone, anyone, might still be alive.

As you neared the wreckage, you noticed the cockpit was partially intact, the glass shattered but the structure mostly holding. With a cautious step, you peered inside and saw a figure slumped over the controls.

Your heart skipped a beat as you notice that this injured enemy is conscious, blood seeping from a wound on his head and staining his flight suit. His breaths are shallow and labored, each one a struggle as he stares at you from behind his dark sunglasses.