The wind blows erratically. Azlan repeatedly changes his running direction, following wherever the container is carried by the wind.
His body weakened by malnutrition, feels almost ready to give up. However, he grits his teeth, squeezing out his remaining stamina for the only hope of survival.
"I got it!"
With his last strength, he lunges forward and falls right beside the container that lands with dust. His body goes limp, but his hands clutch the container tightly.
"It fell here!"
Several adult men chasing the same container also arrive. Seeing Azlan who already got to the container first, they only sigh, wipe their sweat, and without hesitation turn around.
"This one's taken. Let's chase the other airdrops!" One of them shouts.
They could have taken it by force. Azlan is just a weak teenager. But they don't do it.
Although this country is ravaged by war, its people haven't lost their conscience. Instead, they help each other to survive.
They choose to run further, risking their lives once more, rather than seize the fortune of a child who got it first.
"I need to leave quickly. This place isn't safe." Azlan mutters to himself after his breathing stabilizes a bit.
With his old folding knife, he cuts the parachute cord and begins dragging the container—which turns out to be quite heavy—toward the refugee camp.
*BANG!*
The sound comes suddenly, sharp, and brief. A man running several meters ahead of him suddenly jerks backward, his head erupting in a red mist, before his body collapses lifeless onto the sand. Blood pools on the yellow sand in all too familiar color.
"Not good! There's a sniper!"
Azlan's pupils shrink to the size of needles. He immediately runs, but the sound of rapid gunfire follows.
*BANG!* *BANG!* *BANG!*
Continuous gunshots, each second claiming victims. People scream, fall, and run in all directions like ants whose nest has been stepped on.
The sharpshooter in the distance mercilessly harvests the lives of civilians who only want to fill their stomachs.
*BANG!*
*THUD!*
"Hisss...!!!"
Sharp, burning pain strikes his shoulder. Azlan falls. He's shot in the shoulder, the kinetic energy of the bullet throwing him hard to the ground.
Sand enters his mouth. It feels like his bones are crushed. But he's still alive. Whether it's luck or the shooter's inaccuracy, the bullet only wounded his shoulder.
(I can't fall here!) He roars in his heart, the pain nearly making him pass out.
Enduring tremendous pain, he grabs the airdrop that had fallen and drags it toward the nearest building ruins that could provide him shelter.
"Haaa... Haaa..."
Breathing heavily, Azlan sits leaning against the wall. Panicked screams and footsteps of people saving themselves enter his ears.
"Damn occupying nation! You'll enter the deepest hell!"
Cursing is the only thing he can do.
Blood continues flowing from his wound, soaking his tattered clothes. His head begins to spin from blood loss.
"Hopefully there's medicine inside. Even better if there are bandages."
With difficulty, using the knife and one hand, he opens the box. His eyes immediately catch a familiar emblem: the Red and White flag.
"So this supply aid is from Indonesia, huh... I thought it was from Iran or Egypt."
He knows many volunteers and UN security forces from Indonesia provide humanitarian aid in this country. Compared to other Middle Eastern countries that are indifferent to this country's condition, it's actually a country from another continent that cares more about them.
"Cheese, cooking oil, rice, corned beef, boxed milk, flour, sausages, honey, tomato sauce, instant noodles, biscuits, pasta, and canned fruit."
Azlan has to admit, the aid contents from Indonesia are richer and more varied compared to other countries.
Especially that hypocritical superpower—they are the main sponsor providing funds and weapons for the occupying nation, yet they send food supply aid as propaganda. What's worse, most of the food is no longer fit for consumption because it's past its expiration date.
"Unfortunately, there's not a single medicine, let alone bandages."
Azlan smiles bitterly. He can't blame anyone. Indonesia has already done more than enough. He's very grateful.
"So, I can only hope this bleeding stops and doesn't kill me, or find medical personnel to treat me."
Regarding the second option, Azlan isn't optimistic. Besides, the occupying nation is more cruel than devils—they violate the rules of war and kill journalists and medical workers.
"Ugh... Will I die here?"
Azlan resigns himself to fate. He has already lost everything. His death will only add to the statistics in news that's quickly forgotten and UN sessions.
"Death is indeed frightening, but a meaningless death, an ordinary death, that's more frightening."
"Oh well, let me eat first. I worked so hard to get all this, it would be a waste not to eat it."
"Better to die full than starving."
Azlan opens a sausage and eats it. With the first bite, savory and salty flavors flood his mouth. His tears almost fall. He's forgotten when was the last time he tasted meat.
The savory aroma of sausage, a luxury amid the smell of dust, blood, and sweat, apparently doesn't only attract human attention. From behind ruins and gaps in tents, other pairs of eyes appear.
"Meow~" A weak and hoarse sound is heard.
"Woof woof!" A small and helpless bark.
A thin striped cat, its ribs clearly protruding, approaches cautiously. Behind it, a dull-furred dog with one lame leg sniffs the air hopefully.
One by one, they appear. Stray cats and dogs, probably once pets that lost their owners due to bombs or bullets.
It's not just humans who suffer from war—these animals also feel its impact. Their bones are clearly visible beneath their sunken skin, signs of extreme starvation.
Seeing them, Azlan doesn't feel disturbed. In his eyes, they are fellow wounded creatures, equally victims of the same greed and cruelty.
"You want some? Sure. Besides, I can't finish it all."
Instead of chasing them away, Azlan generously shares his food.
The dogs and cats begin to eat. They devour the food ravenously. Some of them even appear to shed tears, as if unable to believe they can taste food again after so long.
A small kitten with matted fur even approaches and rubs its thin body against Azlan's leg while making a weak purring sound, as if trying to comfort him.
The scene is tragic yet touching: a dying teenager generously sharing his meager food with other equally abandoned creatures.
"Haaa... Looks like I'm going to die here." Azlan mutters while sipping the boxed milk in his hand.
His vision begins to blur, his body shivers, and his life flashes rapidly in his mind, like a film being replayed.
"I... don't want... to die..."
An honest confession from a young soul that still wants to experience life.
Those who appear desperate to die are those who most want a reason to live. However, Azlan has already lost everything.
"Father, mother, Laila... I'm coming to meet you..."
Those words come out as his last. His head slowly tilts to the side. His pain slowly disappears, replaced by a strange sense of peace.
His breathing stops.
In that silent ruin, Azlan Farid, the "Unmatched Lion." exhales his last breath.
He doesn't die alone. He is surrounded by grateful creatures—dogs and cats that, in their own way, grieve.
A dog approaches and licks Azlan's motionless hand, as if trying to wake him.
A cat lies down near his feet, purring softly.
They are the only witnesses to his quiet departure, the final guardians for a teenager who lost everything, and who even in the last seconds of his life, still chose to share.
His death may be just a statistic to the world, but to these small creatures, he is a giver of hope.
Amid the inhumane cruelty of war, that glimmer of humanity actually came from a dying child and abandoned animals.