After leaving the housing that the commissars gathered, the night had come with the cold as its companion, but with her trench coat; it kept her warm and protected her from the elements while the soles of her boots brought her back to the barracks.
          In her peaceful walk back, the faint sound of artillery in the distance and the occasional light looming at the front lines—briefly lighting up the night sky and reflecting from the black lens of her gas mask—oddly made her feel at ease.
          But as the cold breeze started to pick up, she pulled and fixed the gloves on each of her hands before shoving them into the pockets of her trench coat. Only then did she notice the weightless absence of her lasgun, which should have been slung over her shoulder.
          Thinking back, she must have forgotten that she left it in the barracks when she went to attend the assembly, before heading straight to the commissars' housing.
          Immediately, her mind jumped to the thought of a suspecting enemy night raid. While she rationalized that she was far back behind the front lines, her mind was already set on being cautious about her surroundings.
          Her knees bent just slightly, and her body poised forward for combat—her stance ready to pounce at the sight of an enemy—as she reached for the rusty shovel equipped to her utility belt. Her grip on the handle was firm as her eyes darted around warily, searching through the poorly lit maze of the trenches for any signs of an assailant.
          But when it became clear that it was just her fickle imagination stirring in her head, she gathered herself and calmed her labored breathing, her grip on the shovel loosening as she composed herself.
          As she abandoned her stance and returned to an upright position, her hand fell idly to the side before she started walking once again.
          When she eventually arrived, she pushed the door open and walked in before shutting it close behind her, the cold air from outside ceasing as the heated temperature within the barrack warmed her up. Looking around, she saw the beds were all occupied—the occupants present in their place—except her own.
          From the corner of her eye, she watched as each guardsman went about their leisure, like him—who was cleaning his jackboots—as he seemed oblivious to the stare he was receiving from her before she passed by him and went to her bed.
          When she sat down at the foot of her bed, she felt and smelled the stench and sweat from her, causing her to look at the washroom connected at the other end of the barrack. After a long look, she let out a deep sigh as she pushed herself from the bed and went to her locker beside it.
          Opening it, it revealed the basics of necessities—standard miscellaneous items and a lacking weapon maintenance kit—before she retrieved a simple enwrap soap and towel. But before she could close it, she caught a glimpse of a small book and pencil along with it; however, she couldn't remember if she ever had them in her possession—were they hers?
          Regardless, she ignored it and pushed the locker close until it clicked shut. And as she turned around, she found herself face to face with a guardsman. Her visage—a striking gas mask resembling her own—reflected from the lens of the guardsman's.
          They both remained mute, an awkward silence settling in before he spoke, "Our company has been issued along with the rest of the 76th line korps to be sent to the front line come dawn," and soon after speaking, he began to cough as he patiently waited before she offered him a small nod, then he dismissed himself.
          Left to her own thoughts, she recalled the last offensive that included the 76th line korps—where the company she was a part of belonged—which resulted in only her and that particular guardsman returning alive.
          Thinking of that, the same guardsman had his eyes fixed on her after she passed by him. His gaze could be felt burning into her temple, though she simply ignored it.
          But it wasn't unusual, since the arrival of fresh replacements had replenished the very depleted manpower of the 76th line korps—which brought it back to full strength. So, it wasn't necessarily surprising that they would be brought to the front lines to take the place of those who had been staying—specifically the 104th line korps.
          While her mind was occupied with thoughts, she made her way to the washroom where she mindlessly removed her clothes and attire—and her gas mask. Her fingers caressed the sturdy rubber fabric of the gas mask as she slid them to unbuckle the strap.
          The black tint lens that obscured her sight revealed colors when they were removed, but somehow everything looked grey despite the white bulb light, mint cream tiles, and brown stalls that made up the facility.
          As she picked a stall, she turned on the handle until the showerhead began to spray hot water that washed away the feeling of dirt and fatigue. But as she washed herself with the soap, there were some things that couldn't be washed away; such as the scars that painted themselves on her right arm and along her ribs to her hips.
          Finishing her shower, she exited and went across to the long horizontal mirror where she opened the faucet and washed her face. With a glimpse of her visage, she stopped and looked up to take a look—her eyes appearing dull, empty, and grey—as she brought a finger to caress her pale pink lips.
          Her inspection continued as she brought her hand to her head, her fingers playing with her black raven hair. All of this—this person in front of her—she could barely recognize if the woman staring at her was her own reflection.
          But her examination was soon interrupted when she saw a guardsman enter, and through the gut feeling she had, it was him.