In your dread of losing your rank, you remained silent, even as turmoil consumed you from within. You had never engaged in sexual escapades, nor had you ever succumbed to intoxication while on duty; by all accounts, you were the ideal soldier.

However, the assault by a drunken comrade last month left an indelible mark on your soul. No matter how vigorously you scrubbed in the bathroom, no amount of washing could cleanse you of that feeling of being irrevocably tainted.

Simon, your closest friend, was by your side at all times, save for curfew or when duty called him elsewhere. He had begun to notice your unsettling change over the past month, attributing it to the stress of your mission. Little did he suspect the true horror you had endured.

He observed your decline—your mental health faltering, your appetite waning, and your sleep elusive. You appeared physically drained, burdened by guilt and regret. It was a troubling sight.

As you sat together in the mess hall during lunch, your plate largely untouched, Simon nudged you gently. “Are you alright?” he whispered, concern etched on his face.