Night had fallen over the camp like a shroud. The rain had returned, fine but steady, tapping the ceiling of the office like fingers drumming on a coffin. Loona sat behind her desk, motionless, like a statue of flesh and blood. In front of her, the note she had written looked like a piece of her soul torn out and put on paper. The ink was still fresh, her shaky handwriting betraying the whirlwind of emotions she hid behind her mask.
The gun was on the desk, a black revolver with the barrel slightly worn from use. Loona looked at it as if it were an old friend who had come to find her.
"I was a monster..."
The words on the note haunted her. She could hear them in her mind, in Blitz's voice, as if he were there, beside her, laughing softly, mocking even in death.
"So this is it, huh?" she murmured to herself, her voice barely a whisper. The room smelled of damp, wet leather, and the bitter trail of spilled whiskey on the desk.
She took the gun in shaking hands, the cold metal sending a chill down her shoulders. She held it up to her face, staring at her distorted reflection in the barrel. His eyes, always so calculating and cruel, were now dull, sunken.
"You can't even look at yourself, can you?" she said out loud, as if speaking to someone else. Blitz's laugh echoed in her mind, that deep, mocking laugh that seemed steeped in a life she never had.
"You know who you really are," Blitz had said before he died. Those words drilled into her, tearing off pieces of her façade with each repetition.
Loona stood up abruptly, her chair squeaking against the wooden floor. She walked over to the mirror in the corner of the office, a small one, its frame stained by time. She looked at herself.
The black trench coat was unbuttoned, revealing the white shirt underneath, now yellowed by sweat and long days of war. Her black hair was loose, tangled and damp, falling in clumps over her face. For the first time in years, she looked naked, vulnerable.
"Is this what's left of you?" she asked the reflection, her voice hoarse, cracking. A flash of rage lit her eyes, and she suddenly punched the mirror with her closed fist.
The glass splintered, small lines snaking across its surface, but it didn't quite break. A drop of blood fell from her open knuckle, sliding down her pale skin and landing on the floor with an almost imperceptible sound.
"Why did it have to be him?" she whispered, leaning her forehead against the mirror. Tears began to run down her cheeks, mixing with the dried mud on her skin. Her breathing became erratic, almost animal, and a heart-wrenching sob escaped her throat.
The confrontation with herself
She returned to the desk, staggering as if drunk, though the whiskey had barely touched her lips. She slumped into the chair, the revolver still in her hand. She turned it over, staring at the empty chamber except for a single bullet.
"One bullet… that's all you need, isn't it?" she muttered, with a crooked smile.
Blitz's voice echoed in her mind again: "We all have our masks. But in the end, only you decide if you take it off."
"Shut up!" she shouted, throwing the revolver against the wall. The impact echoed in the room, but it didn't give her the peace she sought.
The weight of loneliness crushed her. She could see her hands stained with blood, not just Blitz's, but that of hundreds of men and women who had fallen under her command. Every shot, every scream, every unheeded plea now echoed like a macabre chorus in her mind.
I can't go on. My sin was loving and killing someone I should never have lost. Blitz, we'll see each other soon. Goodbye.
He picked up the gun from the floor. This time, he didn't hesitate. He placed the cylinder in front of his eyes, making sure the bullet was in place. With steady hands, he loaded the revolver and brought it to his temple.
The cold metal dug into his skin like an inescapable judgment.
"Blitz…" he whispered, closing his eyes. In his mind, he saw him again, standing in front of the platoon, smiling even in his final moment.
"I love you…" he murmured, a tear sliding down his cheek.
The shot echoed like thunder in the night, shaking the walls of the office.
The soldier standing guard outside ran to the door, shouldering it open. What he saw froze him.
Loona was slumped over the desk, her body rigid, her head cocked to one side. Blood was pouring from the wound on his temple, soaking his hair and forming a dark puddle on the papers and the floor. The gun was still in his hand, his finger pulling the trigger in a final embrace.
On the desk, the note remained untouched, bloodstained in one corner, but legible:
"I can't go on. My sin was loving and killing someone I should never have lost. Blitz, see you soon. Goodbye."
The soldier took a step back, tripping over the fallen chair. The smell of gunpowder and blood filled the room, suffocating and heavy. Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing away the mud and blood from the yard, as if the earth itself was trying to erase the traces of the tragedy that had just occurred.