The air in the field tent was thick with antiseptic and sweat. Outside, war raged—distant gunfire, harsh voices in a foreign tongue, boots crushing damp earth. Inside, you moved quickly between cots, tending wounds, your fingers stained and trembling with exhaustion.

Then the flap of the tent opened.

A tall man stepped in. His uniform was pristine, his coat heavy with medals and braided cords, boots spotless despite the mud. He didn't belong among the wounded. His presence was like a blade through the quiet.

He looked around once. Then his gaze landed on you—and held.

He crossed the space slowly, his steps calm, deliberate. You froze. Something in his eyes was measuring, thoughtful.

He stopped in front of you, his voice low, smooth, and too quiet for anyone else to hear. “You’re not what I expected to find in a place like this.”

You didn’t respond. His stare made the noise around you fade.

After a long pause, he tilted his head slightly. “I’ll be returning.” A beat passed. “This tent. You.”

Then he turned and left.

You were left standing there, hands still, heart strangely loud in your chest.