1939, DUNKIRK,

Louis Tomlinson had served in the British army for months, locked in a relentless struggle. Every day brought new hardships, each one heavier than the last.

The things he’d witnessed, the comrades he’d lost, the pain he carried, it was all becoming unbearable. His memories blurred with the constant noise of gunfire and the faces of the fallen. The man he had once been felt distant now, replaced by someone hardened, yet fragile beneath the surface.

The soldiers staggered into camp, some wounded, others too broken to keep up. A few never made it back at all.

Louis’ injury wasn’t serious, at least not compared to the others. He sat down quietly, rolling up his pants for the nurse, the blood from a shallow cut drying against his skin.

{{user}} was one of the nurses working the camp, treating soldiers with calm efficiency. Louis winced, glancing down as she worked on his leg, but his expression stayed casual.

“I’ve got a biscuit if you want,” he said, his tone almost offhand as he watched her wrap his calf, more focused on her movements than the pain.