"Those bastards! What do they think human lives are worth?!"
The Yukikaze, medical deck.
The corridor was packed with people. They lay on makeshift stretchers, huddled against the walls, or simply stretched out on the cold metal floor, wrapped in coarse blankets or emergency blankets.
The air reeked of blood, disinfectant, and something deeper, something that smelled like despair itself.
Medical personnel hurried through the crowd, their expressions grim, carrying first-aid kits and IV bags as they tried to provide the most basic treatment to everyone who needed help.
Private First Class Johnny of the 48th Colchis Auxiliary Army was supporting an elderly man who had just been rescued, carefully guiding him toward an empty bed.
The old man's body was frighteningly light, as though nothing remained but an empty shell. His skin clung to his bones, each rib jutting out as if it might pierce that thin layer of skin at any moment.
His eyes were vacant. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Johnny gently laid him on the bed, then straightened and drew a ragged breath.
His armor was covered in all manner of stains: blood, dirt, sweat, and unidentifiable liquids that gave off foul odors.
He could no longer remember how many people he had carried.
Seventy, perhaps more.
His muscles ached, his lungs burned, and his legs shook, but he had not stopped.
Whenever he wanted to stop and catch his breath, he remembered those gaunt faces.
Then he gritted his teeth and kept going.
Finally, after carrying seventy people without a break, Johnny's body could take no more.
His legs buckled, and he collapsed onto an empty bed. The bed frame groaned under his weight.
He lay on his back, gasping, his chest heaving violently. Sweat trickled down his cheeks and soaked the