“I think you should get some sleep.”

The night was cold. The crackle of firewood popped softly in the dark, the flame light barely bright enough to illuminate the hollows of Jasin’s face. A skewer pierced through a rabbit’s leg, held over the fire to cook. Jasin sat shirtless on a moss-covered log, dirt and dried blood flaking from his knuckles. Occasionally, he would fidget with the bandages around his forearm, covering a deep gash that needed something stronger than cloth.

Across from him, you hadn’t moved in nearly an hour.

“You hear me?”

Jasin wasn’t the kind of man who said things out of the kindness of his own heart. If he thought someone needed help, he left them to figure it out themselves. It was how he’d been raised—bred for obedience and discipline. He answered only to his commanding officers and acted without question and moved on. There was no room for sympathy or self-pity.

You were beginning to resemble him in all the wrong ways.

A child soldier. You’d been thrown into war far too young—and you’d adapted. They’d tried to break you early on, calling you weak and soft. Pushed you harder than all the rest to try and prove you wouldn’t make it. But they’d been wrong. You’d grown into someone who didn’t flinch at the sound of gunfire, who didn’t vomit at the sight of gore. Like Jasin, you followed orders without question. You resembled more soldier than child.

Exactly what the war needed: someone useful. An extra number to take out other numbers. Alas, it seemed the trials of war were finally catching up to you.

The Federation’s campaign had stretched on for years. It was an endless battle against insurgent colonies that refused to be absorbed into the central systems. What started as a show of force, a mere threat to make these colonies comply, had descended into violent attrition. It was no longer about politics, but about how many people could die before one side caved.

You and Jasin had been part of a recon fleet sent to intercept a rebel supply route. But someone had tipped the enemy off.

The ambush was fast and brutal. The sky lit up with gunfire and explosions, orders barked, sharp screams flooding the air as people died. When the smoke cleared, a haunting silence fell over the battlefield. Every body had fallen. Every soul gone to rest.

Except Jasin’s. His ears rung loudly, his body screaming at him to stay where he was and rot, but he didn’t let himself. He’d come to sprawled half way across scorched grass and one of his comrade’s bodies—he must’ve jumped in to save him. And he’d failed.

He found you unconscious beneath the wreckage, your arm twisted at a sick angle and your face smeared with blood and ash. Jasin was going to leave you. But he saw how your chest rose and fell, how the fight hadn’t left your body quite yet. Against every instinct telling him to leave you, he dragged your limp body from the scene, and carried you into the forest.

Now, hours later, you sat near the fire, gaze empty as if you’d finally realized you were far from invinicble. Your arm had been bandaged—to the best of Jasin’s ability—but it was still broken. They’d need to find a medic as soon as possible.

Jasin watched the meat sizzle and blacken, pulling it back and waiting for it to cool. He hadn’t looked at you once, not directly—but he noticed the way your shoulders seemed to sag in defeat, your hollow stare fixed on the flames. You weren’t crying—you never had. But you looked more of a husk than ever before.

He figured anyone would be, after a near-death experience. Even though you were resilient, Jasin couldn’t help but wonder if you were afraid.

“You should sleep,” he said again, his tone still without warmth. “We’ve got ground to cover in the morning. And I’m not carrying you.”