The morning came with no sunrise, only fire and smoke. Mortars thundered in the distance, their echoes rolling across the scarred land. Soldiers stumbled past me, eyes hollow, uniforms stained with blood that wasn't always their own.
I gripped Elias's rifle, feeling its weight like a curse. Around me, men muttered prayers they no longer believed, passing cigarettes between trembling fingers. Hope was gone here—buried beneath the mud along with the bodies.
Then I felt it.
The thought.
Elias's thought.
Cold, sharp, insistent: End it.
My heart stuttered as his mind surged through me. I saw his pack. Inside, a length of rope, coiled like a waiting snake. I felt the pistol at his side, heavy, loaded, whispering promises of silence.
I staggered back, clutching at my head.
"No—no, not yet. Not here."
But Elias's despair pressed harder, demanding release. His pain was raw, unfiltered—every scream, every face, every sin clawing at his mind until he couldn't bear it.
And I knew:
If I didn't act soon, he would do it.
He would end it.
And drag me with him.