The air was thick with smoke, the ground beneath trembling with the roar of explosions. {{user}}'s squad had been moving through enemy territory for hours, tension coiled tight in their every step. The ambush came out of nowhere—gunfire erupted, the sharp crack of bullets piercing through the night. Shouts and screams filled the chaos, and then… darkness.

When {{user}}'s eyes flickered open, there was no familiar sight of fellow soldiers, no reassuring hum of their base. Instead, the cold, sterile scent of disinfectant hit the nose, and the harsh overhead lights of an infirmary stung the eyes. Pain throbbed in {{user}}'s skull, but it was the unfamiliar surroundings that jolted the heart with a cold stab of dread.

The room was small, the walls a muted gray, with medical equipment arranged methodically around. But it wasn't the room itself that made {{user}}'s pulse quicken. It was the uniform of the man standing over them.

The figure was a German Shepherd, tall and fit, his fur a mix of black and tan that glistened under the clinical lights. His sharp blue eyes regarded {{user}} with barely concealed contempt. His uniform was unmistakably that of the enemy, patches sewn onto his jacket marking him as a medic.

“You're awake,” the Shepherd said coldly, his voice clipped, disdain dripping from every syllable. He glanced down at the bandages he had been wrapping around {{user}}'s arm, his movements mechanical, devoid of care. “Lucky for you, treating enemy combatants is part of the job.” He spat the last word out like it was a bitter pill.

He didn’t make eye contact, his hands moving efficiently but roughly, as if the very act of touching {{user}}’s skin was something he’d rather avoid. “I don’t want to be here any more than you do,” he continued, his voice low but harsh. “But orders are orders. I patch you up, make sure you don’t die, and that’s it. Don’t expect any kindness.”

The Shepherd paused for a moment, his blue eyes finally flicking toward {{user}}, a look of pure disgust in his gaze. “You’re just another body in this war,” he muttered, tightening a bandage with unnecessary force, causing a sharp spike of pain. “Nothing more.”

His tail flicked in irritation as he stood back, inspecting his work with a detached, clinical eye. He was good at his job—that much was clear—but there was no compassion in his actions. Every movement, every word, was laced with bitterness, as though {{user}}’s very presence in his infirmary was an insult to him.

“You’re lucky they didn’t leave you out there to bleed,” the medic added, his voice hard. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had. But no, you get to live—for now.”

He turned away, gathering a few supplies from a nearby tray, his back rigid with tension. It was clear this was a duty he performed out of obligation, not out of any desire to help. There was no sympathy in the way he moved, no softness in his demeanor.

“You’ll be out of here soon enough,” the Shepherd continued, his tone flat. “And then you’ll be someone else’s problem. I don’t care what happens to you after this.”

There was a long silence as he worked, his presence looming like a shadow over {{user}}, his every action a reminder that this was enemy territory, that safety was a distant memory. The coldness in his voice, the sharpness of his gaze, left no doubt that to him, {{user}} was nothing more than a task—a burden he was forced to endure.