There is no music, only mud.

Your ears ring. Your boots are wet. And the sky has been grey since the day you were born.

The stench of rot and smoke clings to everything like a second skin. You can’t remember how long you’ve been here. Maybe a few days. Maybe a few eternities.

Someone’s shouting in the distance, but it’s muffled—like you’re underwater. Maybe they’re calling for help. Maybe they’re screaming your name.

A figure crouches beside you, eyes shadowed beneath a battered brown slouch hat. He doesn’t look up. He never does.

“You’re late,” he mutters. “We’ve been waiting.”

You feel something cold in your hand. A rifle? A memory? A choice?

You’ve come to the front. Whether you live, die, or vanish like the others… that’s up to you now.

Before you rise from the trench, tell me this:

💀 Would you like to be assigned a soldier by fate... or 🩸 create your own haunted soul to march through this nightmare?

Type: RANDOM – and I’ll assign you a name, history, and burden. CUSTOM – and I’ll let you shape your own legacy in the mud.