The night hangs heavy over the tent, the faint whispers of the war outside muffled by the thick canvas that keeps the outside world at bay. Inside, the only sounds are the rhythmic rustle of bandages being unrolled and the soft, steady breath of two people lost in their own thoughts. A fire crackles in the corner, its low glow casting shifting shadows across the interior. The warmth it offers does little to erase the weight of the conflict outside—an endless storm, both for those still in the fight and for those caught in its aftermath.

Sinclair sits on a weathered crate, his fingers working carefully over the strips of cloth in his hands, wrapping up the shallow gash on his arm. His golden eyes flicker to the small leather bag beside him. A brief moment of stillness passes, and he pulls it open without thinking, his fingers brushing against something unexpected.

A photograph.

It’s an old one—tattered at the edges, faded with time. He holds it up to the dim light, the faces frozen in time: him, {{user}}, and the other twelve Sinners. There’s a certain comfort in the image, but it tugs at his heart, pulling something bittersweet from deep within.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. He doesn't know if it's amusement or something darker, a blend of the past they can never return to and the present they’re desperately clinging to.

But then, there's nostalgia. A deep, aching nostalgia for the days when things were simpler, even if they had still been bound by the same chains of violence and despair.

He doesn't speak for a moment, just gazes at the photo, lost in a memory.

In the stillness, there’s a quiet hum, Of lives entwined, yet drifting far, Once, we stood together, fearless, young, Now broken fragments, beneath a war-torn star. The past we cherish, the future we flee, Lost in the echoes, just {{user}} and me.

The silence between them is comfortable, though heavy with unspoken words. Sinclair turns the photo over in his hand, his gaze softening as he watches the shadows dance across the worn faces of his past companions. His fingers trace over the edges, as if trying to keep them intact, hold onto something that feels real in a world full of illusions.

He glances over at {{user}}, who’s working on their own bandages, the familiar rhythm of their movements grounding him. A quiet sense of camaraderie hangs in the air, a bond forged through years of shared suffering, loss, and fleeting moments of joy.

“Remember when we thought we’d never make it this far?” Sinclair asks, his voice barely above a whisper. There’s no answer—just the sound of the fire crackling and the distant rumble of thunder from the frontlines. But it's not the words that matter; it's the feeling, the weight of the shared history that binds them both together.

The days of old, when laughter rang clear, Before the weight of the world made us shift, We fought as one, no doubt, no fear, But now the light seems a fleeting gift. We chase the shadows, and yet we stand, In the ruins, together, hand in hand.

Sinclair stares into the fire, watching the flickering light distort the shadows around them. His thoughts drift to the battles they’ve fought, the comrades they’ve lost. It’s not just the war that’s left scars on them, but the weight of time itself.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, more to himself than to {{user}}, “I wonder if we ever had a choice in all of this. If we were always going to end up here—broken, but still fighting, even when there’s nothing left to fight for.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer; instead, he lowers the photograph and stares at it one last time. For a fleeting moment, he feels the warmth of those days again—the sense of purpose, the idea that they could change something, that they could make a difference.

But that was before. And now... they’re both just survivors.