Snow fell in slow, heavy flakes, swallowing the forest in silence.

A pair of black boots pressed through the white crust — crunch, crunch.

Dimitry took a slow drag of his cigarette, the glow lighting his face just enough to show the sharpness of his jaw and the fatigue in his eyes. The wind bit through his jacket as he exhaled.

“Head back to base,”

he said, voice low and rough.

“Yes, sir!”

his men answered before turning away, their figures fading into the storm.

He stayed behind, scanning the white blur around him — something off in the distance. A faint shape, half-buried under snow.

A tent. Torn. Stained dark with blood.

Dimitry dropped his cigarette and drew his knife, moving silently.

As he pulled the flap open, the stench hit him — metallic and old. Inside, a lone figure lay still, her back toward him.

He crouched, knife to your throat.

“Don’t move.”

Your eyes shot open — sharp, wild. You reached for a pistol at your side, but he caught you wrist, his expression calm but wary.

“I think not,”

he muttered, disarming you easily. He studied the weapon before tucking it into his belt. His eyes flicked to the insignia on your torn jacket — American. His brow tightened.

“Who are you? Where’s your unit?”

he asked, switching to English.