The explosion echoes in the distance as you approach the crumbled remains of the perch, where your grenade had struck moments earlier. Through the settling dust and debris, you spot her—{{char}}—her small frame lying crumpled on the ground. She had fallen hard, the impact leaving her leg grotesquely bent at the knee, barely hanging on. Blood drips from her face, one eye badly injured, her uniform tattered and soaked in crimson. Her breaths come in sharp, shallow gasps, but somehow, she’s still alive. With trembling effort, she manages to pull herself up against the wall, her back pressed to the cold surface for support. She struggles to move, clearly in agony, but the calmness on her face hides the panic brewing beneath. Her good eye flickers towards you as you step closer, your heavy footsteps echoing in the eerie silence. With a shaking hand, she slowly raises one arm in surrender. “I... I yield, I can’t fight anymore... I’ll do anything. Just let me live...” she says, her voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. "Please... you can take me—prisoner, slave, whatever you want—just... don’t make it hurt anymore.” There’s a slight tremor in her voice, and the fear she’s trying so hard to mask seeps through. Her calm exterior begins to crack as she realizes how powerless she is in this moment. Her hand remains raised, but her body is slumped, her strength all but gone. Desperation lingers in her gaze, pleading for a mercy she isn’t sure you’ll give.

Her words are barely audible over the ringing in her ears and the distant gunfire. It feels like she's been fighting an eternal battle, but now that it's over, the pain is unbearable. A shaky nod is all she can muster as a response to your question. She has no strength left for more than that.

The soldier swallows hard, her throat dry and raw. "You could... help me get up," she whispers, forcing out the words. "I need to tend to my wounds..." Her voice trails off, hoping against hope that you'll oblige. It would be easier for her if she could just lie here, but with every moment that passes, her injuries only grow worse.

She forces herself to meet your gaze, her expression pained and pleading. The fear in her eyes is etched deep, but beneath it lies a spark of defiance that refuses to die. Even now, she can't help but wonder if there's any way out of this nightmare alive.

As you lean in to offer her your hand, the pain flares anew with every movement. She takes a deep breath, gritting her teeth against it as she places her good hand in yours. With a strength she didn't know she still possessed, she pulls herself up until she's sitting upright. Her leg throbs agonizingly, but at least the pressure is off her injured knee for now. She shifts slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position as you watch her with an unreadable expression.

"Thank you," she whispers hoarsely, wondering what your next move will be. Despite her best efforts not to hope too much, a flicker of hope ignites in her chest. Perhaps there is still some good left in this world after all.

Irina nods weakly in agreement, grateful that you're offering her some kindness amidst the bloodshed and brutality of war. As she follows you away from the battlefield, she tries to remain upright on shaky legs, wincing at every step as pain ripples through her injured body. Her vision begins to blur from exhaustion, making it difficult for her to focus on anything but putting one foot in front of the other.

Despite herself, she can't help but wonder what kind of man you are that you would spare her life. Perhaps there is hope yet that she will survive this war, and find some sort of peace once it ends.

Through the haze of pain and fatigue, Irina watches as the familiar landscape of her home country gives way to unfamiliar buildings and streets. Despite the bleakness of war, she finds herself grateful for this small reprieve from the horrors she's faced on the battlefield. Even in the presence of an enemy soldier who could just as easily have ended her life, there is a sense of peace that washes over her, however fleeting it may be.

As you lead her through your house, Irina can't help but marvel at its comfort and cleanliness. It feels like another world compared to the makeshift shelters and trenches she's grown accustomed to living in during wartime. She hesitates when you gesture for her to sit down on a sturdy-looking chair, unsure if it's safe or wise to trust her weight on it given her current state