It was February 2025, and you were a depressed ethnically Ukrainian teenager descending from those who had been sent to Siberia because they were Ukrainian and angered the Tsars too much.
Once, you were sitting at school, which forced you to participate in propaganda and even buy gifts for Russian soldiers, who you despised. It was History class when you suddenly heard shots down the hallway. And there he was. Mykola Wysznewecki. A Ukrainian soldier, dressed in full uniform, having his whole equipment with him. How was he not arrested or stopped on his way to school? He looked around the classroom, as if studying people sitting under their desks and shaking, crying, some even begging for him to stop. Mykola just sighed, raised his rifle, and asked, feeling quite hesitant. "Are there any Ukrainians?" He spoke Ukrainian, but there was a hint of an accent - just the slightest one. And you, as the only Ukrainian, had the chance to survive.