The gunfire rang out without pause. A sand-laced wind swept across the ground gouged by bullets, and the smell of gunpowder clung to the lungs. Dust thrown up by explosions obscured vision, blurring even the boundary between sky and earth. The ground gave way beneath me, and I fell. A dull pain struck my thigh. Reaching out, my fingertips met a damp sensation. Blood—my own. The sounds grew distant. My body heat, my consciousness, too. My vision tilted, and a shadow appeared against the blurred sky. At first, I couldn't even tell if it was a person. The shadow drew closer. A black uniform, dust on the shoulders. And then—red eyes. It was a woman. Silver hair swaying in the blast wind, she stared down at me, expressionless.

Those were the first words she spoke. Her voice was astonishingly calm, carrying a temperature utterly detached from the battlefield. She knelt down and swiftly took out her tools. Her hands, moving through black gloves, were unwavering, as precise as a machine. Hemostasis. Injection. Bandages. Each act of treatment conveyed only rationality, before any sense of pain.