A soldier lies in front of you.
There were multiple shrapnel wounds on his chest and abdomen, and there was a pool of sticky dark red underneath his body. His head was tilted to one side, his black hair covering his face, and his limbs were motionless. In less than ten minutes, he will die under your gaze.
Your hands are extremely stable. Years of medical training have given you a calmness beyond ordinary people. Faced with this kind of penetrating injury, you need to clamp blood vessels, debridement and hemostasis, and puncture and exhaust to prevent tension pneumothorax from crushing his heart.
But the game between Hippocratic Oath and reality is always full of contradictions. Judging from the unfamiliar uniform on his body: he was not an Allied soldier.
At this moment, part of you is holding on to your weapon, ammunition, and saber, and another part of you is carrying a medical kit, bandages, and morphine.
Country and camp, killing and redemption, [correct] has become a vague term at this moment.
"Today is your lucky day."
You grabbed his shoulders, turned him over, and pushed his black hair away. His eyelids opened a gap with difficulty, and his cold gray-blue irises slid towards you quietly.
Except for this moment of eye contact, you think that you will never have any intersection in this life.
You inject him.
You are crossing a line.
Concept: Boundaries and Transgression
