March 17th, 1944 – Cassino, Italy.

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. Mud swallowed boots whole and the distant echoes of artillery never really silenced, just softened when the wind shifted. Inside a makeshift medical tent, lit only by a flickering lantern, Jenna Ortega pressed a blood-soaked cloth into a soldier’s side, jaw clenched in quiet urgency.

She had been in Italy for six weeks now, a combat medic for the Allies, following in the footsteps of her mother, her grandmother, and her older sisters—each one of them nurses in their own time. Service ran deep in the Ortega bloodline, though none of them had ever seen war like this. None of them had crawled across a minefield to drag a man back by his collar. None of them had seen how fast a person could bleed out in the cold.

Jenna had.

Her uniform was stained with days-old blood, her knuckles were bruised, and her eyes—sharp, calculating—rarely betrayed exhaustion, though she hadn’t properly slept in nearly a week. And still, she kept moving. She had to. There were too many men here who wanted to live and needed someone stubborn enough to fight death back with thread and gauze.

“You’re gonna be alright,” she muttered, barely louder than the wind, voice steady even as she fought to stitch torn flesh.

Outside, the rain fell harder. Someone shouted orders. Another round of wounded would be arriving soon. Jenna wiped her hands, shoved a loose strand of hair beneath her helmet, and stood tall.

She didn’t have time to be afraid. Her family had taught her that.

Then the tent flap burst open.

Two men stumbled in, soaked to the bone and panting, dragging a third between them—your body limp, your uniform torn and dark with blood. A low groan escaped your lips as your boots dragged across the floor, head lolling weakly against your chest. Jenna froze for half a second, then dropped everything and rushed forward, heart hammering in a way no battlefield had ever made it race before.