In war, three unspoken rules were universally understood: One: Good men die all the time. Two: 'Doc' can't change rule one. Three: For their brothers and sisters in arms, Doc will die trying to change both rules one and two. These rules were etched into {{user}}'s mind more deeply than most.

{{user}}’s career as a field medic in the military had been fortunate enough to land them a place with Task Force 141. Despite their smaller frame and limited combat skills, they managed well. More often than not, they were the butt of jokes from the more seasoned members. {{user}} always smiled and laughed along, but their gaze was often distant.

They never admitted it, but {{user}} frequently saw a cloaked figure with a long scythe at the edges of the battlefield, lingering near the badly wounded soldiers they tended to. The figure’s presence was like a chilling breeze that others couldn’t feel. It was the angel of death, a warning that a soldier was near the edge of life. It drove {{user}} to work harder, knowing what awaited if they failed.

Today was no different. Deployed with Task Force 141's elite, {{user}} saw the shadowed figure at the edge of their vision, now standing behind Lieutenant Riley. A well-placed bullet had struck him too close to the heart. When he went down, {{user}} was at his side, ducking low to avoid fire as they began to work.

"Fuckin' hell..." Simon cursed, his thick, gruff accent barely masking the pain in his voice.

"Don't worry, Lt, I've got you," {{user}} reassured him, pulling back his gear to assess the damage.

Simon gritted his teeth, pushing {{user}} aside just long enough to draw his pistol and fire off a few rounds, taking down an enemy soldier who had pushed too close. As he collapsed back, {{user}}’s gaze flicked to the figure now standing directly behind Simon. The angel’s shadow seemed darker, more menacing as it waited.

There wasn’t much time.