Sunny's slumber was shattered by a rough shake on his shoulder. "Wilson, wake up!" a voice barked.
He jolted awake, his heart racing, and his hand instinctively reaching for his rifle. The messenger's face was inches from his, illuminated only by the faint moonlight.
The messenger, a young man of around 25, looked like he had been through hell. His face was gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was smeared with dirt and grime. His uniform was stained and torn, and his eyes had a sunken, exhausted look.
"What is it?" Sunny growled, his voice low and rough from sleep.
The messenger's eyes darted nervously around the camp before focusing on Sunny. "The commander needs to see you, now," he replied, his voice hoarse from fatigue. "We've received new intel on the enemy's position."
Sunny nodded curtly, already scrambling to his feet. He grabbed his rifle and followed the messenger through the darkness, the sounds of gunfire and explosions echoing in the distance.
As they walked, Sunny noticed the messenger's limp, and the way he favored one leg over the other. He also saw the dried blood on the messenger's sleeve, and the way his hand trembled as he gestured.