The bullet grazes your temple.

It is a hot, copper taste in your mouth.

You do not fall.

You stand.

The smoke clears.

The field is a patchwork of mud and torn earth.

It is 1918.

Or is it?

The sky is a bruised purple.

It does not look like Flanders.

It looks like a cathedral ceiling.

You check your rifle.

It is a strange thing.

The metal is warm.

It hums against your cheek.

You are a scholar.

A professor of history at Oxford.

You are not supposed to be here.

You are not supposed to be holding a gun.

But you are.

And you are afraid.

And you are proud.

That is the contradiction.

That is the trap.

"Stay low," a voice says.

It is old.

It is kind.

It is the voice of your mentor, Professor Ashworth.

He is dead.

He has been dead for ten years.

But he is there.

He crouches behind a stone that looks like a ribcage.

His uniform is wrong.

It is made of gray wool.

It is too clean.

He looks at you.

His eyes are bright.

"Your aim is poor," he says.

"Your mind is loud," you reply.

"You think too much," he says.

"I always do."

"Stop thinking."

"Easy to say."

"Look at the enemy."

You look.

They are not German soldiers.

They are figures in black.

They have no faces.

They move like smoke.

They carry spears of light.

You fire.

The rifle kicks.

The air ripples.

A figure dissolves.

It does not die.

It just... stops.

It fades into the mist.

You feel a jolt in your chest.

It is not pain.

It is loss.

It is a hole.

"Did I kill him?" you ask.

Ashworth shakes his head.

"You erased him."

"Is that different?"

"Ask yourself."

You do not answer.

You do not know.

The mist thickens.

The ground beneath you feels soft.

It feels like flesh.

You realize you are standing on something.

It is not mud.

It is skin.

Pale, endless skin.

You are standing on a body.

A giant body.

You look down.

The landscape is a hand.

The trees are fingers.

The sky is an eye.

It is open.

It is watching.

You feel a wave of nausea.

You feel a wave of awe.

This is the threshold.

This is where the world ends.

This is where the world begins.

Ashworth stands up.

He brushes the dust from his knees.

The dust is white.

It glows.

"We must go deeper," he says.

"Deeper?"

"Into the heart."

"That is death."

"No. Death is the outside. This is the inside. This is life."

You look at your rifle.

The metal is pulsing.

It is beating.

Like a heart.

You are holding a piece of the body.

You are a part of the body.

You are not a soldier.

You are a cell.

And the enemy is a virus.

But the virus looks like you.

The figures in black have no faces, but you feel their intent.

They are not evil.

They are not good.

They are simply... other.

They are the part of the body that rejects the transplant.

They are the immune system.

And you are the transplant.

You are the foreign body.

You are the scholar who sought the truth.

You are the man who wanted to know.

Now you know.

And it is a burden.

"Fire," Ashworth commands.

You hesitate.

Your finger hovers over the trigger.

If you fire, you kill.

If you kill, you become the virus.

If you become the virus, you are alone.

But if you do not fire, they will take you.

They will dissolve you.

They will make you part of the mist.

You look at Ashworth.

He is smiling.

It is a sad smile.

It is a knowing smile.

He knows what you are.

He knows what he is.

He is a memory.

He is a ghost.

He is a part of you.

He is your conscience.

He is your ambition.

He is the part of you that wants to conquer.

"You must choose," he says.

"Choose what?"

"To be the killer. Or to be the victim."

"I choose to be neither."

Ashworth laughs.

It is a dry, brittle sound.

"You are a fool," he says.

"I am a scholar," you say.

"Scholars do not survive."

"Then I will not survive."

You lower the rifle.

The figures in black stop.

They wait.

The giant eye above you blinks.

The light changes.

The mist begins to swirl.

It forms a shape.

It forms a door.

It is a threshold.

It is made of light and shadow.

It is made of truth and lie.

It is the boundary between the self and the other.

Between the good and the bad.

Between the life and the death.

You step forward.

Ashworth steps back.

"Go," he says.

"Will I see you again?"

"No."

"Will I remember you?"

"Yes."

"Will I forgive you?"

"Forgive me for what?"

"For leaving me here."

"For letting you go."

You step through the door.

The world changes.

The skin becomes stone.

The stone becomes grass.

The grass becomes a field.

The field becomes a trench.

You are back.

You are in the mud.

The bullet is in your temple.

You are bleeding.

You are alive.

The enemy is dead.

The smoke is real.

The sky is gray.

It is 1918.

It is real.

You are alone.

You look at your hands.

They are covered in blood.

It is your blood.

It is their blood.

It is the same blood.

You feel the weight of the rifle.

It is heavy.

It is cold.

You drop it.

It lands in the mud with a dull thud.

You do not pick it up.

You do not need it.

You are not a soldier.

You are a man.

You are a scholar.

You are a friend.

You remember Ashworth.

You remember the giant eye.

You remember the choice.

You chose to be neither.

You chose to be human.

It is a small thing.

It is a fragile thing.

It is a thing that can break.

But it is yours.

You stand up.

Your legs are shaky.

Your head is spinning.

The copper taste is gone.

It is replaced by the taste of rain.

The rain begins to fall.

It is cold.

It is clean.

It washes the blood from your hands.

It washes the mud from your boots.

It washes the world.

You look around.

The other soldiers are looking at you.

They are confused.

They are afraid.

They do not know what you have seen.

They do not know what you have done.

They do not know that you have died.

They do not know that you have been born.

You walk away.

You walk toward the rear.

You walk toward the hospital.

You walk toward the end.

You walk toward the beginning.

You are not brave.

You are not cowardly.

You are tired.

You are hungry.

You are alone.

But you are free.

The threshold is behind you.

It is always behind you.

It is the line you do not cross.

It is the line you respect.

It is the line that defines you.

You are on this side.

You are in the world of men.

You are in the world of war.

You are in the world of pain.

But you are here.

You are real.

You are you.

The rain falls.

The mud sucks at your boots.

The war continues.

The world turns.

The light fades.

The dark comes.

You close your eyes.

You breathe.

You live.

It is enough.

It is all.

It is the only thing that matters.

The body is gone.

The giant is gone.

The eye is closed.

The door is shut.

You are free.

You are free.

You are free.