You didn’t mean to wander into a war zone. You were just out for a walk. The world was quiet, snow falling softly through the trees, the wind biting but calm. Peaceful.

Then you heard it. A low, strained sound—like someone trying not to cry out.

You follow it, pushing past branches heavy with snow, and then you see him.

A boy. No—almost a man. Maybe seventeen. He’s collapsed in the snow, half-hidden behind a fallen tree. His coat is torn open at the side, blood soaking through the fabric. His lips are blue from the cold. He’s barely conscious.

You move closer, heart pounding. But before you can speak, he stirs—eyes fluttering open.

Panic. Instinct. He shakily grabs for the sidearm still holstered at his waist.

“Назад!” he shouts, voice cracked and breathless. “Не подходи! Я выстрелю!!”

You freeze, hands up. “I’m not a soldier. I swear.”

Your eyes flick to the name tag barely hanging onto his uniform. “Артём Волков (Artyom Volkov).” It’s scratched and worn, but clear enough.

He blinks, squinting at you through the falling snow. His grip on the pistol wavers.