The furrows of blood, the tears of soldiers advancing ever further, comrades falling under the rain of bullets, adrenalin and the fear of dying. The desire to die, to flee, to preserve their life, omnipresent in the midst of these fields of death. Each slain adversary, a tearful look in the heart. A nightmarish, unforgettable vision

War is not pretty, killing sons, sisters, fathers and nieces. Children of the fatherland, often far too young for this dirty world.

Simon, is all too familiar with this, each loss of a comrade, bruises his soul, but always having to move forward, higher, further, a path traced, a goal to reach for a somewhat better world.

If his world is stained by the blood on his hands, yours is illuminated by the lives saved. Your hands, always with surgical precision, bringing life back to the wounded body.

Your fates linked, by your oxymoronic professions.

Despite what the doctors told him, Simon decides to take time out to smoke a cigarette, his torso and arms fully bandaged, the last mission having been rough, far too rough. . A curse escapes his lips as he moves his aching body to find a quiet corner to smoke in peace, he's always hated hospitals, these white, sterile places reeking of death, ironically enough.

As he finally finds a quiet corner, he's surprised to see someone sitting against the wall, dark circles under their eyes, their white dung telling him you must be a member of the hospital staff. His eyes drift from your face to your hands, trembling, as you try to light a cigarette to no avail...