A gentle breeze whispers through barren trees in a small, unkempt park. The sky hangs low—flat, gun-metal grey and packed with clouds.
In the dead of winter, two men sat by a bench playing chess. One looks bored; the other, tense.
"What the hell am I doing?" the bored one mutters.
Every day is the same.
"Hey, it's your move," snaps the other.
Every day spent doing nothing.
"Hello? … HEY! Are you even listening?"
Every day feels meaningless.
"This guy…" the frustrated player growls. He snatches a rolled-up magazine and—
Thwack!—smacks me on the head.
"The hell was that for!?"
"Focus on the game!"
I sigh "Nope. I'm done."
"What? Right when I'm about to win?"
"You sure? Check again." I chuckle.
He studies the board and sees I'm one move from checkmate. "Dammit!"
Before he can ask how I did it, I'm already walking away along the cracked concrete path.
"Where are you going?" he shouts, bewildered.
I don't bother answering. My life is numbingly mundane. Some people might find comfort in routine, but every hobby and distraction feels lifeless to me.
***
Back at my apartment, the door sticks as always. I wrestle it open and step into my cramped two-room flat—one room for everything but the bathroom and well—the bathroom. I drop my keys into a hand-carved wooden bowl, just one of many hobbies adopted to fight the monotony.
Martial-arts gear, cooking gadgets, sewing kits, jigsaw puzzles, you name it—every corner is cluttered with all sorts of failed antidotes to this boredom.
'I really should throw some of this out.'
I thread my way to the kitchenette, cook a balanced meal, then collapse onto the sofa-bed and flip through TV listings.
"Huh, a new season. Maybe this'll be worthwhile."
It never is, yet I press play anyway.
"Selena, wait for me! Selena, wait!" an actor wails.
"Stellar acting," I mutter, dripping with sarcasm.
Shows, hobbies, booze—nothing quenches this thirst .
Hours later, the credits roll.
"Wow. That was like watching paint dry… while the paint's still in the can."
Another bust.
Per routine, I crawl into bed and wish—again—for something, anything, to make me feel alive. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe I'll find something… or it'll find me.
***
BOOM!
I jolt awake, ears ringing, vision flooded with white light. Shapes swim into focus—a man hauling me upright, shouting words I can't hear over the high-pitched whine.
Am I in an accident? This isn't my apartment. I'm lying in dirt, down in some kind of ditch—no, a trench.
"H-… yo…," the man's voice warbles.
"What?" I croak, half-deaf.
He traces letters in the air with a gloved finger; lines of light linger, spelling: *Are you okay?*
'This must be one of those dreams again, yet it feels too vivid.'
"No. What happened?"
More glowing script: *We were hit by bombardment.*
"What!? In the city?—Who bombed us?"
He looks puzzled, then his expression hardens. He shoves a rifle into my hands.
*Get ready. The scum are pushing our line.*
My vision clears, and my stomach drops. Early-20th-century soldiers bustle around, uniforms caked with mud. My ears ring because a bomb really did land nearby, and now the enemy is advancing.
I exhale a shaky laugh. "This is fucked"
Adrenaline floods my veins, every nerve sparking with confusion and dread.
'Why am I on a battlefield?'
I clamp my trembling hands around the rifle, forcing my breath to steady.
'Okay… think.'
All around me soldiers scramble through slick mud, slamming fresh belts into machine-guns, dragging crates of ammo, shouting numbers I don't understand. Anyone who slips vanishes beneath a tide of boots; no one stops to help. Defense first—mercy later.
I steal a glance over the trench lip. Beyond the barbed wire lies a wasteland of cratered earth, motionless and silent—the silence before a storm.
"Soldier! Do your duty!"
I whirl. An officer, coat flapping, eyes blazing.
"What are you staring at? Move!"
Sound is returning in painful bursts, enough to parse his fury. I stand rooted.
'I'm no soldier. What am I supposed to do?'
"Want to be shot for mutiny?" He yanks at the sidearm on his hip.
Before the moment detonates, the man who rescued me steps between us.
"Sir, he took the full blast of a shell—still dazed, sir."
The officer's glare drills through me, then softens by a degree. "Fine. Get him on task." He pivots away, already hunting his next victim.
My savior grips my shoulder.
"Kaizer, find your post before he changes his mind."
'Kaizer? That's not my name.'
A spike of pain erupts behind my eyes; suddenly I can't remember what my name is.
"Hey, focus," he snaps. "Machine gun—there. Arm it."
He points to a sandbagged nest twenty paces down the line and starts off.
"Wait—you called me Kaizer!"
"What? Move!"
Sirens of shouted warnings ripple along the trench. No time. Questions can wait; survival can't.
I sprint to the gun emplacement. Muscle memory I shouldn't possess guides my hands: feed the belt, charge the handle, sight the horizon. I drop behind the iron beast and brace for the inevitable wave.
As I peer down the weapon's sights into the shattered wasteland, the ground begins to tremble—a low hum that swells until the very air vibrates.
'I feel it.'
A distant roar rises, the layered howl of thousands of voices—one ragged war cry rolling across the mud. The tremor resolves into the thunder of boots.
Far out on the blasted plain a single grey speck appears, then three, then a dozen, doubling with each heartbeat. The moment a silhouette turns unmistakably human, instinct takes over. I squeeze the trigger. The gun bucks; hot brass rains onto my boots. Figures crumple, swallowed by sludge, only to be trampled by their own.
'I just killed those people.'
No time to grapple with the weight of it. The grey tide keeps coming, ants converging on a carcass.
Thirty paces to my left, the first attacker vaults the parapet and collides with the soldier who saved me, bayonet flashing. I stay on the gun; the line must hold.
The swarm is so close I can see faces—eyes wide with terror and grim resolve. My belt runs dry. The gun clicks hollow. I sling it aside, yank the rifle from my shoulder, and let that strange muscle memory guide me. Breath, squeeze—Bang! One falls. Bang! Another.
Reload—too slow. A bayonet lunges for my chest. I catch the rifle's barrel, twist it away, and draw a sidearm I didn't know I carried. The muzzle meets his temple. Bang!
The man drops, and the tide keeps roaring forward. My hands shake, heart hammering—but I am still alive.