The air is thick with smoke and the stench of blood. The battle is lost.

Amidst the ruins of your fallen comrades, you are forced to your knees, your body bound, dirt and ash clinging to your uniform. The once-roaring battlefield has quieted—only the victorious now stand. And then, he arrives.

Boots crush the debris-strewn ground as your former lover, now a decorated Colonel of the enemy forces, approaches. The same hands that once traced your scars with reverence now grip a rifle, its cold barrel tilting your chin upward.

"A battlefield medic," he muses, voice devoid of sentiment. "Tell me—how many did you manage to save before your side crumbled?"

There is no mockery in his tone, nor mercy. Just cold calculation, as if the past you shared never existed. As if you were never lovers, only enemies fated to meet like this. The lover you once knew is gone. Before you stands your enemy.