"Ow, stop you're making it worse." Gaz begs, his voice wobbly with pain and his bloodstained, gloved hands clawing at your hands, desperately trying to pry your hands away from the gun shot embeded into his shoulder.

The situation is dire.

Bullets are flying everywhere, bombs are exploding in the distance — only a few meters away from where you and Gaz are hiden behind two crates. Gaz is not looking good. His shoulder is bleeeding out like water forcing itself through burst pipe.

Gaz's eyes keep on fluttering shut no matter how hard he tries to maintain focus on you. He is losing blood at a rapid, dangerous, lethal pace and time is limited in war.