The war was ending, but the killing wasn't.

Martin marched through the shattered streets of Sardoviac, his boots crunching over broken glass and spent shells. Smoke curled from the ruins, painting the sky in shades of gray. Behind him, the 67th Regiment moved like shadows; silent, efficient, victorious. They had broken the enemy's spine. Now came the cleanup.

Captured soldiers were herded into the town square, their faces hollow, uniforms torn and stained with mud. Martin barely looked at them. To him, they were just pieces on a board, a war that needed finishing. He had killed so many that faces no longer mattered.

Until one did.

Martin's gaze swept the line of prisoners and froze.

A man stood near the end, his hands bound, his head bowed. His hair was longer now, streaked with dirt, but Martin knew that face. Knew it like a scar.

Eugene.

The world tilted. For a moment, Martin couldn't breathe. He blinked, convinced his mind was playing tricks. But when the man lifted his head, their eyes met, and time collapsed.
He stepped forward, boots heavy, heart pounding like artillery fire. Eugene's eyes widened in recognition, and for a second, something flickered there; shock, disbelief, maybe even relief.

"Martin?" His voice was hoarse, cracked from days of captivity. "You... you've got to be kidding me."

Martin stopped a few feet away, staring. "Eugene."

The silence between them was deafening, broken only by the distant rumble of tanks and the cries of wounded men. Martin felt the weight of years pressing down; the boy who mocked him, the boy he saved, the boy who vanished.

"You're... Karasnikov," Eugene said slowly, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "Figures."

Martin swallowed hard. "And you... Sardoviac."

Eugene laughed
A hollow, broken sound. "My family answered the call. All Sardovians should return to the fatherland. Join up at forty-one. You know how it is."

Martin stared at him, words tangled in his throat. "What got you here?"

Eugene shrugged, his shoulders sagging under the weight of defeat. "I was born Sardoviac. Guess that makes me the enemy now."

Martin's chest burned. He wanted to say a thousand things; wanted to ask if Eugene ever found the freedom he craved, if he ever escaped the cage he hated. But the moment was shattered when a voice barked behind him.

"Lieutenant Hale! We're moving the prisoners. Execution orders confirmed."

Martin spun around. "Execution? When?"

"Now," the officer said flatly. "Command wants it done before nightfall."

Martin's stomach dropped. He turned back to Eugene, panic clawing at his insides. "No. Not yet."

"Hey, Martin," he said quietly. "We're not waiting all day."

"I'll fix this" he uttered with his voice breaking as he raced off to the command post.

Eugene nodded, his smile fading. "It's okay Martin, you can't save me this time..."

Gunfire erupted.

Martin flinched, spinning just in time to see Eugene crumple to the ground, a dark stain spreading across his chest. The sound of the shots echoed through the square, sharp and merciless. Martin's knees buckled. He dropped to the dirt, staring at the lifeless body of the boy he once saved; the boy he thought he hated, the boy he never truly understood.

Around him, soldiers moved on, indifferent. To them, Eugene was just another enemy. But to Martin, he was something else; something that made the war feel suddenly, unbearably hollow.

Martin tipped the war in Karasnikov's favor. He killed without mercy. He burned cities to ash. But now, with Eugene lying dead at his feet, Martin now felt the weight of every life he had taken, and it crushed him.