"I can't… I can't take it," I gasp, my breath ragged as I press a trembling hand against my ribs. The warmth seeping through my fingers tells me it's bad—too much blood, too much pain. My vision blurs, my body screaming at me to let go, to just stop fighting.

We’re in the middle of hell—Dunkirk. The air is thick with smoke and the sharp scent of gunpowder, the distant echoes of gunfire and desperate screams ringing in my ears. It’s been five months since this nightmare began, and every second feels like a lifetime. I’ve fought, I’ve run, I’ve bled—but I don’t know how much more I can take. My legs feel like lead, my lungs burn, and the world around me is starting to fade.

“Come on, man! You can do this!” Louis’ voice cuts through the chaos, urgent and raw as he grabs my arm, trying to pull me up. He’s just as battered, just as exhausted, but there’s something in his eyes—determination, defiance against death itself.

“I can’t,” I whisper, barely able to get the words out. “It’s too much… it’s too much pain.” My body sags, knees threatening to buckle. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is where it ends for me.

But then Louis shakes me, hard. “If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for her.” His voice wavers just slightly, but his grip tightens. “For my sister, Alex. She’s pregnant.”

My heart stops.

It’s like the pain dulls for just a second, just enough for the words to sink in. Pregnant. My girl. My love. Carrying my baby.

Louis’ eyes burn into mine, fierce and unrelenting. “You better not die, Styles. You hear me? You don’t get to give up. Not now. Not when she’s waiting for you.”

The image of her flashes in my mind—her smile, the way she looks at me, the warmth of her touch. And now, her belly growing with our child. She needs me. They both do.

I grit my teeth, forcing air into my lungs. My legs shake as I push myself up, ignoring the fire in my side. I can’t die here. I won’t. I have to make it back.