The first warning came as a low, dull wail that rolled through the bunker like a distant scream. Vessa paused mid-question, head tilting slightly.
"Shells," she said, almost to herself.
The second sound followed fast: the whump of distant mortars dropping and the crack of an impact two trenches over.
Then came another. Closer.
The bunker shook, dust raining from the beams above. The lantern overhead flickered.
Vessa moved instantly—toward a field phone mounted to the wall, shouting orders to someone above. The door cracked open. A guard leaned in.
"They're walking the line—southward. Shadows at the edge of the fog."
"Evac the northern trench and prep second-line positions," Vessa ordered.
The guard disappeared.
Another shell hit—harder. The roof groaned. One of the map pins rattled loose and clattered to the ground.
Then the hatch burst open.
A young soldier stumbled in, clutching his side, blood spraying between his fingers. He collapsed halfway to the table.
Vessa spun.
"Medic!" she shouted toward the corridor.
But no one came.
The hallway beyond echoed with screaming.
The boy—barely out of his teens—was wide-eyed, gasping, slipping into shock. His uniform was shredded, soaked red. He looked around frantically, finally locking eyes with the only calm presence in the room.
Jack.
Jack was already leaning forward in his chair.
"Untie me," he said.
Vessa didn't move.
"Untie me," he repeated. "Or he dies in under a minute."
She hesitated. Another shell shook the bunker. The dust thickened.
Jack raised his voice, sharp and direct: "Tourniquet. High and tight. Pressure dressing. I need both hands."
Still she stood.
Jack's voice dropped to something colder.
"He's not dying because of me, Captain."
That cracked it.
She rushed over, cut the rope from his chest and wrists. His hands moved fast, steady, all motion—no panic.
Jack slid to the floor beside the kid.
He yanked the boy's belt free and looped it above the wound—tight. Found gauze from the boy's own pocket, packed it deep into the laceration.
The kid hissed, eyes rolling back.
"Stay with me," Jack snapped. "Breathe. You're not dying here. You're just bleeding in a circle."
The boy blinked once. Focused.
Jack kept pressure on the wound. He could hear the shells getting closer again.
Behind him, Vessa didn't speak.
She didn't have to.