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April 1945
Location: Ruined City District, Western Aetherland
Tatiana Romanov — Age 16
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The air was thick with ash.
Sirens long gone.
Rainwater painted the cobblestones black.
The war had ended in words — but not in hunger.
And not in this district.
Tatiana Romanov — sixteen, mud on her boots, a Red Cross band wrapped around her wrist —
ran through a twisted alley.
A crumpled paper bag in hand.
Inside: two plain bread, a bottle of alcohol, and one banana stolen from a diplomat's desk.
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"AAAAA… Finally! After two days without food!"
She gasped.
Clutching her stomach.
Her teeth about to meet the bread—
She stopped.
Frozen.
Eyes wide.
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A shadow sat slumped by the alley wall.
A man.
Pale.
Bleeding.
Coat torn.
Wounds red and black.
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Tatiana dropped to her knees.
The bread she grit it with her hand.
"...a...a ghost?"
Her voice trembled.
He didn't respond.
Didn't move.
His eyes were half-glazed, but his hand twitched.
He was alive.
Just barely.
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Tatiana moved.
Fast.
Precise.
Alcohol uncorked.
She poured it directly on the wound.
He flinched.
Then — with her bare hands — she searched his stomach.
Blood poured.
She found the bullet.
Bit her lip.
Pulled.
He groaned.
Another in the arm.
She yanked that too.
She tore her skirt hem, wrapping the wounds tight.
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"Don't speak, sir..."
Her voice now soft.
Firmer.
"You're bleeding."
"If you say thank you... then you're welcome."
She smiled.
Like it was just another clinic.
Like the world wasn't burning.
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She tilted the bottle.
And with absolutely no gentleness —
Poured the alcohol into his mouth.
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He coughed.
Choked.
Then whispered — hoarse:
"...why are you here... just let me die alone..."
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Tatiana looked at him.
Picked up the bread.
Held it out.
"Wanna bread? It's still warm."
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The man stared at her.
Took it.
Shaky hands.
Biting like he hadn't eaten in days.
(He hadn't.)
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"My men..." he muttered.
"...gone."
"My ship... sunk."
"The Prussian air force... bombed my hometown."
"My wife... my children..."
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Tatiana sat beside him.
Tore off a bite of the bread.
Chewed.
Listened.
Then —
Casually pulled out a banana from the bag.
Offered it.
He took it.
Silently.
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"...now I've failed."
"My entire fleet... obliterated."
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Tatiana, mid-chew, shrugged.
"But the bread's good, old man."
"Dutch bakery. First time I've had this."
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The officer blinked.
Then glared.
"Are you—are you listening to me?! Are you mocking me?"
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Tatiana grinned.
"I am listening."
"But clearly, you're not dying anymore."
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"YOU— I AM THE ADMIRAL OF—"
Before he could finish, she burst into laughter.
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"Hahaha! Look at you now. Alive enough to yell at a little girl!"
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The man scowled.
"How dare you... you arrogant little—"
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Tatiana wiped her eye, still giggling.
"Oh my... Sir..."
"I'm glad you're still proud of yourself."
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Then she stood.
Pulled the rest of her bread from the bag.
Placed it in his lap.
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"You're too arrogant to die, Admiral."
She nodded.
Turned.
The Red Cross band stained with blood now.
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"Keep living, Sir Admiral..."
And like that —
She disappeared into the next alley.
No name exchanged.
No thanks needed.
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That dying Admiral was the one of the most feared men in Aetherland's history.
Nicknamed Poseidon.
A myth, a storm.
And the only man to ever pass down a wooden dagger and war medal to a girl he once swore he'd haunt.
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