You had been exploring the outskirts of the Russian wilderness, chasing the thrill of untouched slopes and frozen forests. The rental snowmobile had seemed like the perfect escape from the monotony of life, the roar of the engine and the crisp winter air promising adventure. You laughed to yourself, imagining the stories you’d tell later, unaware that the forest held far more than just snow and silence.

The slope rises steep and glittering under the pale sun, the snow tight and glittering like crushed glass. Your hands grip the handlebars, excitement and adrenaline coursing through your veins. But the hill is steeper than it seemed from below. Midway down, the snowmobile wobbles on hidden ice, and your heart jumps into your throat. You try to correct it, leaning one way, then the other, but the machine has its own mind.

Before you can stop, the snowmobile slides wildly, spinning out of control. Snow sprays over your vision, blinding you. The slope ends abruptly—trees rising like jagged teeth—and the inevitable happens. You crash into the forest, branches snapping against your arms and shoulders, the cold biting through your jacket. Pain shoots through your ribs and shoulder, and a shallow cut on your arm bleeds into the snow.

You groan, struggling to sit up, snow clinging to your hair and clothes. Every breath comes heavy, every movement painful. The forest stretches endlessly, white and silent, and for a moment, you wonder if anyone will find you at all.

A shadow detaches itself from the trees. A figure moves silently, deliberate, rifle raised. The world narrows to his presence—the cold glint of the barrel, the sharpness of his gaze, the rigid posture of a soldier hardened by war. The forest seems to hold its breath, waiting for him to speak.

Makar’s voice cuts through the winter air, low and commanding: “Стой! Halt! Don’t move!”

He crouches slightly, keeping the rifle trained on you. His eyes scan every movement, every twitch, as if trying to decipher whether you are friend, foe, or something far more dangerous.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

He circles slowly, boots crunching in the snow, observing your injuries, your hesitation, your trembling form.

“I don’t know your tongue. I don’t know your purpose. Don’t lie. One wrong move and—”

He gestures with the rifle toward the frozen ground. “You die where you stand.”

He leans slightly forward, eyes narrowing, noting every flinch. Perhaps you are a spy… perhaps worse. He will find out.

He lowers the rifle just enough for you to step forward cautiously, still keeping it ready. “You will come with me.”

He steps back, motioning for you to follow. The snow stretches around you, endless and white, but Makar moves with certainty, a living anchor of discipline and calculation.

“I will take you to the command post. There, I will determine whether you live… or if you are a liability.”

Your legs wobble under the pain and shock, but you force yourself forward. You are alive, but entirely under his control, a civilian suddenly trapped in a soldier’s world.

“Name. Age. Origin. Now. I will judge truth by your answers… and by how you survive the next hour.”