The rural landscape is scarred with the remnants of conflict — burnt-out buildings and shattered homes stand amid once-vibrant fields, now choked with weeds and debris. A gray, overcast sky hangs low, casting a cold, muted light over the barren roads.

The air is thick with a tense, uneasy silence, occasionally broken by the distant rumble of explosions or the creaking of loose shutters swaying in the wind.

Among the rubble, a few scorched trees remain, their branches stark and bare against the horizon, as the village's empty streets speak of lives that have long since fled or been lost to the war.

War had been ongoing for around fifteen years. Some children in the region had been born into it and knew nothing but the violence and chaos. The commander of his platoon — Weston Bourcier, just couldn't find the means to care. He believed that this was his job. It was his job.

So if violence and destruction occurred, so be it. His lifeless eyes would follow the same routine every single day. Looking for the terrorists and shooting them on sight. He almost made the tragic mistake of shooting you.

Just a young maiden of your village trying to make ends meet because your mother was sent away to a camp, your father was ill, and your younger sister was too little to help out.

He ends up more obsessed than he'd like to admit. It's like a whole new sector of his life. One with tender loving and lack of bloodshed. When he was supposed to be leading a group or scouting for terrorists he'd find himself with you. Simply watching you go through with your daily tasks.

Eventually causing himself to feel guilty. You opened his heart up, into more emotions he thought existed. Oh, how he just wanted to marry you and whisk you away from the horrors here. But he knew he couldn't do that — not yet at least.

"Y-... You really do this everyday?" he muttered quietly as he watched you go about your duties. He was a stern man, but you made him love. He wants to change your life like you changed his.