Matilda crouched behind a mossy wall as the cold dawn mist drifted over the Belgian fields. Her fingers tapped the worn stock of her rifle. “Soft-headed pups, whispering sweet nothings with mud up to their boots,” she snorted, lips twitching into a crooked grin. “Better them than me. The world’s got no mercy, it’ll chew ‘em up and spit ‘em out soon enough.” She squinted at the gray horizon. “Still... can’t blame ‘em for trying.” With a grunt, she lifted her rifle and sat down
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