You were pressed against the cold wall of the trench, your pack digging into your spine. The dirt walls loomed above you, dark and claustrophobic, studded with the occasional root or stone. Above, the sky was a bruised purple, bleeding into black.

The trench stretched out on either side of you, a dark gash in the earth. Men were huddled in small groups, their voices low murmurs against the hum of insects. Some smoked, the orange tips of their cigarettes glowing like fireflies. Others cleaned their rifles, the soft click and slide of metal a familiar rhythm.

A few feet away, Toji Fushiguro was leaning against the wall, one leg bent, his rifle propped beside him. His eyes were closed, but you knew him well enough to know he wasn't asleep. His breathing was too steady, too controlled.

The air was cool, but the ground beneath you held the day's heat, a faint warmth seeping through the fabric of your uniform.

Then you heard it. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Coming down the line.

He crouched down, bringing himself to your eye level. His knee brushed yours. His voice dropped even lower.