It was a frosty winters night. The mission hadn’t gone as planned. Simon’s entire squad was ambushed before they could reach the enemy base, and almost all the soldiers that were supposed to be protected under Simon’s wing were dead— almost..

Simon was forced to watch as his colleagues were violently slaughtered by the enemy, and he was left alive just so he could live with the guilt, which was probably more torturous than death itself. He’d seen an ongoing list of shit throughout his lifetime, but this really took the top spot.

He stood among his deceased commerades with his infamous hundred yard stare, his eyes scanning the contorted bodies and the blood staining the paper white blanket of snow covering the forest floor, which was twinkling like glitter under the moonlight. It was like he was a reptile, he hadn’t blinked in minutes. He couldn’t. He was too immersed in staring at the aftermath of his reckless actions.

Little did he know; his closest friend, {{user}}, was still alive under one of the many piles of broken bones he was staring directly at, dangerously wounded.