“You know what’s funny?” Lieutenant Chen said, pulling out a pack of wet wipes from his tactical vest. “Even in war, some things stay ridiculously normal.”

Private Wu watched his superior meticulously clean his hands in the dim bunker light. The distant echoes of artillery fire punctuated their conversation like an irregular heartbeat.

“Sir, should you really be using those now? We’re running low on supplies.”

Chen smiled faintly. “My wife packed these for me. Said a soldier should at least keep his hands clean.” He pulled out another wipe, offering it to Wu. “Want one?”

Wu shook his head. The younger soldier had been watching Chen’s peculiar ritual for weeks now - how he would clean his hands after every mission, every shot fired, every life taken. As if somehow the simple act could wash away more than just dirt and gunpowder.

“You remind me of my son,” Chen continued, carefully folding the used wipe. “He’d always tell me I was being wasteful too.”

“What happened to him, sir?”

“He was on the other side when the war started.” Chen’s voice remained steady, but his hands trembled slightly. “Last I heard, he was stationed in Sector 7.”

Wu’s breath caught. Sector 7 - the same area they had bombarded last week.

“Sir, I-”

“I know,” Chen cut him off. “I was the one who called in that strike.”

The bunker fell silent save for the distant rumbling. Chen pulled out another wipe, his movements mechanical now.

“The intel said it was necessary. Strategic value. Acceptable casualties.” Each word fell like lead between them. “I keep thinking - maybe if I’d waited, gathered more information…”

Wu watched his lieutenant’s methodical cleaning ritual with new understanding. Each wipe was an attempt at absolution, a futile gesture against the weight of command decisions.

“Sir, the emergency channel-” Wu hesitated. “There’s still time to warn them about tomorrow’s offensive.”

Chen’s hands stopped moving. “That would be treason, Private.”

“Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant stared at the nearly empty pack of wet wipes. One left. His wife’s voice echoed in his memory: “Keep your hands clean, dear.”

That night, when Wu checked the emergency frequencies, he found them suspiciously clear of interference. The next morning, Chen’s bunk was empty. All that remained was a single unused wet wipe on his pillow.

During the court-martial, they asked Wu if he knew anything about the leaked intelligence that had allowed the enemy to evacuate Sector 8 before the offensive. He thought about Chen’s son, about clean hands and impossible choices.

“No, sir,” he said. “Lieutenant Chen was always very thorough about keeping things clean.”

Somewhere across the lines, a father and son reunited, their hands equally stained with the price of war, but their consciences perhaps a little cleaner.