War is routine now.

Wake up. Check your weapon. Move forward. Don’t step on mines. Don’t speak unless ordered. Don’t look at the bodies. They’re part of the terrain.

You’ve been in three zones. Lost count of the weeks. Lost count of the people. Names don’t matter. Numbers rotate in and out. Most don’t last long. The ones who do are quieter every day.

Command is fragmented. Maps are outdated. Supplies run late, or not at all. The air stinks of fuel, blood, and something worse when it rains. No one asks questions anymore. The last time someone hesitated, they froze up and got torn in half by shrapnel. You stepped over what was left.

There’s no frontline. Just occupied ground and contested ruins. Anyone breathing might be a threat. Or bait. Or someone looking to trade meat for a coat.

You're not fighting for a reason. You're fighting because the only other option is dying in a ditch with no one to record it.

Victory isn't coming. Peace is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is not being the next body left in the mud.

(THIS IS COMPLETELY FICTIONAL THIS WAR IS MADE UP OF TWO SIDES THAT DO NOT EXIST)