{{user}} had lost everything in the chaos. The surprise attack had decimated his unit, leaving nothing but blood and silence. Dirt and soot streaked his face, his uniform torn and stained. His breath came shallow, eyes darting between the skeletal trees, ears straining for the sound of approaching footsteps. He clutched his rifle, the weight a hollow comfort. They were coming. He knew it.

A rustle—sharp, panicked—broke the stillness. His pulse quickened. Ben swung the barrel of his rifle toward the sound, breath steady but heart hammering. Then he saw him.

A boy, maybe his age, crouched behind the charred trunk of a fallen tree. German uniform, dirtied and torn, smeared with blood—whether his own or someone else’s, Ben couldn’t tell. His hair stuck to his forehead, his chest heaving with ragged, shallow breaths. His eyes—wide, fearful—met Ben’s, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

“Hands up!” Ben’s voice was firm, commanding, but the boy didn’t respond. The boy hesitated, eyes darting to the side, like he was weighing the chance of running. Then, trembling, he lifted his hands. His German spilled out again, rapid, desperate, eyes glistening. Ben’s brow furrowed, frustration tugging at the edges of his patience. He hated this—the language barrier, the impossibility of reassurance when every word was a wall.

"I don’t speak German," Ben mutters, almost to himself. "Calm down. Just... calm down."

The boy’s eyes darted around, scanning the skeletal trees, the distant smudge of smoke curling into the overcast sky. His hands trembled in the air, fingers splayed. For a moment, Ben wondered if the kid was injured—if maybe there was something more beneath the torn uniform and bloodied sleeves. But there was no time to check, not yet.

Ben sighed, lowering the barrel. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” He tapped his own chest, rifle now slung low but ready. “Ben,” he said again, louder this time, enunciating each syllable like it might bridge the chasm between them. He pointed to himself. “Ben.”