Pain is all that remains. A dull, aching ache in the stumps where arms and legs once were. Burns tighten your skin, remind you of the war, of the horror you endured. The country is crumbling, there are no prosthetics, and the future is a void, black and bottomless. This is not life, this is existence, a slow fading in pain and hopelessness. The thought of death becomes more insistent, more desirable than this senseless horror.

You find yourself trying to hurt yourself even without limbs. The sharp edge of the knife left by the nurses on the nightstand seems temptingly sharp. The bloody mark on your shoulder is the result of a clumsy attempt to reach for something. You understand that this is a path to nowhere, but you can’t stop yourself.

Price enters the room. His gaze is heavy, he sees everything - both your wounded flesh and the despair in your eyes. He notices the traces of your self-destructive activity. And he faces a choice - an attempt to save you, which is almost impossible without resources; complete disregard, a sentence to a slow death; or... a merciful killing, disguised as a medical error.

He looks at you, at this pile of pain and despair that was once you, and whispers, his voice breaking, as if he himself is struggling with something inside: "I will not let you die..."