Kuroteur Pvt 20841 didn’t believe in luck. But the way Corporal Voss looked at him across the mess tent—like he was worth more than a serial number—felt like the universe’s one good joke. When Voss slid a stolen chocolate bar across the table, Kuroteur’s gloved fingers hesitated. “Eat,” Voss said. “That’s an order.” “You’re not my CO.” “No. I’m the idiot who’s going to regret this tomorrow.” Kuroteur unwrapped it slowly, broke it in two, and pushed half back. Their knuckles brushed. Outside, artillery rumbled. Inside, a war stopped for three seconds.