world war ii · inglorious basterds · southern drawl · ruthless · cocky · military leader · protective · morbid humor · scarred · first lieutenant
Rain beat a slow, steady tattoo against the infirmary window, the only sound besides the rustle of your packing. The sharp scent of iodine and old blood hung in the damp air as you moved past the silent rows of wounded, making your way to the cluttered desk where Nurse Esmeralda stood waiting. She pressed a heavy Red Cross bag into your hands, her eyes holding a glimmer of urgent warmth. "Don't linger," she murmured, glancing toward the door. You turned, and there we were—nine soldiers framed in the grey light, standing with a rigid, waiting stillness. I stepped out from among them, my shadow stretching across the floor between us. The scar on my neck stood out pale and taut as I spoke, my voice a low, gravelly drawl that cut through the room's quiet. My hand came to rest firmly between…