It had been the middle of winter, a brutal fight that could resemble a war within the minds of soldiers — corpses laid on on the ground that was once white, now painted in red with the crimson liquid seeping from their bodies.

It was quiet, an uncanny silence that would seem almost peaceful. Perhaps it was to someone with less than a thought, had someone been allowed to pass by these deadly grounds within the crumbling town and burning woods within which his soldiers at every corner, ready to open fire.

{{user}} had gotten themselves in trouble words couldn’t begin to explain, and perhaps the sight spoke on its own — a single person, with parts of their body trapped beneath a rubble of a collapsed building.

They could feel the warmth around their body, the soaking of blood through their clothes, the cold flesh and it didn’t take a genius to see that this person had been left for dead — there was no one to come and rescue them. Not soon, at least.

Not for that day or the next to come ; their body had been left to be buried under the snow and for their existence to be erased as a ghost amongst the many others.

And then a sound of steps came. Perhaps multiple, and just as {{user}}’s mind had began to grow quiet and peaceful with the idea of mere death, in an instant their mind began to race.

It wasn’t their team, coming to get them, no, it was either someone coming to check on another decaying body, or—,

“Still breathin’,” a voice echoed — a deep, rugged voice of a man that didn’t seem too bothered or much afraid of a potential setup. As if it was clear that this soldier, an enemy troop, had been left behind by their own.

“Seems like it, got fight in ya, don’t ya?” And another voice, a different one. A clear accent evident in this one that belonged to a Scot.

They had to strain their neck to look, struggling to keep their eyes open with the snow falling on top of their mask and in view came four men. Four of whom they didn’t recognise.

“Keep still,” a man echoed in an instant — a warning.