The campfire crackled weakly against the cold night air, barely holding back the heavy chill that had settled across the barren outpost. The stench of burnt fuel and iron filled the trenches behind you, a constant reminder that peace was still just a myth around here.

You sat by yourself, knees hugged tightly to your chest. You were just another kid stuffed into a uniform two sizes too big.

Most of the soldiers passed you by with hollow pats on the head and fake smiles. "Hang in there, kid." "You're doing great." "Real fighter, that one." Their words were empty, barely even reaching your ears anymore.

But Simon Hunt was different.

You caught the sound of heavy boots crunching over gravel before you saw him. Short black hair tousled, his sharp blue eyes locked onto you from a few feet away. His face, carved with the kind of exhaustion that no sleep could cure, softened slightly when he saw you sitting alone.

Simon approached with a slow, deliberate stride, one hand casually resting on his belt. He crouched down beside you, the firelight casting warm shadows over the harsh angles of his face.

"Hey," he said, voice low and even, careful not to startle you. "You eat yet?"

You blinked up at him, unsure what to say. No one ever asked you things like that. They cared if your gun was clean, if your boots were tied, if you could still shoot straight. They didn't care if you were hungry.

"I brought you something," he added after a second, reaching into one of his pouches and pulling out a battered protein bar. "Not much, but better than nothing."

He offered it out to you, but didn't shove it into your hands. He just held it there, letting you choose.