He didn’t know the kid’s name. Not at first.

1942, Second World War. Just another uniformed face, one of the many who flinched at every explosion. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. His bottom lip would tremble when he thought no one was watching. They called him “kid” with a mix of mockery and pity. Ben... Ben could barely stand to look at him.

Not because he was weak. At least, that’s what Ben told himself.

It was something else—something in that shattered look, the way he curled into himself every nightfall, that reminded Ben this—war, death, mud, screaming—was real for them. Not for him.

Ben was there for the cameras. For the speeches. For the pictures with cigars and pretty girls. Vought made sure his uniform was always spotless, his smile just right under the helmet. Mud didn’t stick to icons. Blood didn’t splash them the same.

But the kid... the kid was covered in it. His hands shook when he held his coffee. He woke up screaming names no one else knew. And Ben, sitting on his bunk, arms crossed, watched him. Every night.

"How do you do it, sir? Not be afraid?” Once the boy asked him.

Ben didn’t have an answer. Because he hadn’t been on the front. Only on the sidelines, in safe zones, reciting his rehearsed lines. What he felt wasn’t fear. It was... shame.

“Wasn’t born to be afraid, kid. It’s that simple,” he lied, coldly, wanting him to shut up.

But he couldn’t stop watching him. Because that boy... that mess of skin and panic... was the most human thing Ben had seen in the entire war. And for some messed-up reason, it made his stomach turn.

Not because of weakness.

Or maybe exactly because of it.