( Christmas Kids - Roar )

It’s 1940, World War II, on the field.

The air is thick with damp earth, machine exhaust, rot. The trenches have walls slick with mud, clinging to boots, to skin, to anything foolish enough to move. Soldiers’ faces are smeared with grime, eyes hollow, uniforms stiff with dried sweat and dirt. Breath comes shallow, fogging in the dark.

Each inhale tastes of ash they’ve grown used to.

Sound never stops. Weapons thunder in the distance— rifles fast, machine guns spewing endlessly with one goal: pierce through soldiers. Grenades exploding with the dirt flying in the air and men falling over like dominoes. Men shout warnings, orders, prayers, pleas for help— names.

“{{user}}!”

The name torn out from Ben’s lips. The hand clasped around your arm has no intention in letting go, letting you go on a suicide mission he isn’t ready to witness.

Their time could last longer if the hourglass is left alone. But the moment you choose to be brave, or stupid, the weight bears down. The sand falls faster, hurrying toward an end Ben doesn’t want to reach.

He doesn’t want their friendship to end like this. Not on a battlefield where men are wasted like ants beneath a shoe, crushed worthlessly for the promise of victory.

“Don’t fuckin’ do this!”

The words come out sharp, commanding, but they are only a plea wearing armor. Gunfire and explosions roar like distant gods, yet all Ben hears is his own heartbeat and the space where your answer should be. He is waiting for anything, refusal, hesitation, something that might slow the sand.

All he hears is your silence, and the dreadful look of determination and sorrow in your eyes.

Ben is clinging to reason with you like a lifeline that’s already fraying.

“It won’t matter!” He says, too fast. “You think this changes anything? They’ll just shoot you before you walk five step like an ant, and the ground will just have another body!”

His eyes are locked on yours, wide and frantic, trying to memorize every detail before anything happens. His fingers dig into your arm, knuckles white, heartbeat hammering, lungs barely drawing air.

Every muscle in him screams to stop this, to shove, to yell, to stop time itself.

“We still have time,” he says, voice breaking on the word. “Af-after this— After today. We talked about it, remember?”

There’s a look in Ben’s eyes, one that you’ve never seen.

“You said we’d get out…” He recalls, tugging your arm to pull you down from the surface. “You said we’d get out together!” He yells.