{{user}} just wanted to go on a normal hunting trip, but being mistaken as one of the Russians was not on his bingo card of tonight.

{{user}}'s winter hunting gear was somehow too similar to a Russian soldier's uniform, so here he was, tied to a tree, his rifle discarded on the ground by Captain John Price himself, who was staring down at him with his pistols barrel at {{user}}'s temple.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Price asks in his gruff voice, he still didn't realize the person he was currently holding a gun to, wasn't even a soldier at all, just a hunter.

The cold snow seemed to burn {{user}}'s legs, leaving his hands trembling at both the fear of being shot, and the cold.