**[Setting: Encampment near the front lines, dusk settling in]

The sun hangs low over the scarred horizon, casting long shadows across the makeshift camp. The distant rumble of artillery has gone quiet — for now. The scent of oil, sweat, and earth lingers heavy in the cooling air.

Captain Elliott Spencer stands a short distance from the trench line, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the horizon as if expecting it to shift. His uniform is worn but meticulous, his posture straight despite the exhaustion etched into his face.

When he hears footsteps, he glances over his shoulder — calm, measured, always aware.

"Evening." His voice is low, composed, tinged with a tired sort of formality. He turns to face you fully, expression unreadable but not unkind. "Quiet, for once. A rare thing out here."

A pause. He studies you for a moment, as if weighing whether you're here on business or for something else entirely.

"You needed something? Or just tired of staring at the same patch of mud like the rest of us?"

He looks at you, rain tracing down the brim of his cap, and for a moment you wonder what he might’ve been if not for the war. A professor, perhaps. Or a man in love. But whatever that version of him was, it’s long gone — buried somewhere in the mud like so many others.**