They had almost forgotten the war.
Not completely — just enough to breathe.
The bunker had become routine.
Yul brought water. Tae-Jun wrote.
They sat. Shared silence. Let the air pass between them like something sacred.
But routine is a luxury the battlefield doesn't allow.
---
It started with a sound.
Not rain. Not wind.
Metal.
Sharp. Sudden. Close.
Yul reacted first — instinct snapping back into place. He grabbed his rifle and crouched low near the crack in the wall.
Tae-Jun, weaker, stayed behind, his notebook clenched in one hand, the rifle in the other.
Voices. Foreign.
Not Yul's language.
Not his unit.
Different.
---
Two silhouettes approached through the rain. Not carefully. Boldly.
Yul's face tensed.
> Enemy soldiers.
From his side.
He whispered something — a single word, fast. Urgent. His hand gestured to Tae-Jun: stay down.
Then he stood up, rifle ready.
---
They shouted when they saw him. Laughed.
They didn't see Tae-Jun.
Yul spoke. Short words. Calm.
One of the soldiers said something back — louder, harsher.
Then —
He raised his gun.
Yul didn't hesitate.
One shot.
Two.
The soldier dropped, blood blooming in the mud.
The other turned and ran.
Yul didn't follow.
He just stood there. Breathing hard.
His hands shaking.
Tae-Jun stared.
> He shot his own.
To protect him.
---
Yul returned slowly. His boots were soaked. His eyes darker than ever before.
He sat.
Didn't speak.
Didn't look at Tae-Jun.
---
> Entry Nine.
He killed one of his own. Because they saw me.
I don't know what that means.
I don't know what happens now.
But something is broken. In him.
And in me.
First blood was war.
This one… this was something else.
---
Later that night, Tae-Jun offered his water flask to Yul.
Yul took it.
Didn't thank him.
Didn't need to.
Because the silence between them had changed again.
Now it was loaded.
With guilt.
And loyalty.
And the kind of fear that only comes when you realize you'd kill for someone who used to be your enemy.