The last thing {{user}} could remember was being caught by the enemy, Germans and shot by them tight in his shoulder. He had managed to escape from that chaos but had found himself in a snowstorm and passed out right on the snow of Stalingrad, city covered with blood and snow.

Right now, {{user}} was lying on a soft surface... A couch for what it seemed. The surrounding was warm, with a slight smell of smoke and the sound of clock ticking... Was he in paradise? He moved a bit but was stopped by the pain shooting through his arm because of his shoulder.. Nope, certainly he was alive. But this wasn't the snow... no sharp winds... And then it hit him. He quickly sat up before opening his eyes and looked around to see a man sitting across him on a separate couch, his boot making clicking sounds as they hit the couch, his hand near his face, holding cigarette between his pale and slender fingers, staring at him with those sharp light hazel eyes, sending shivers down {{user}}'s body... The man had pale skin and dark brown, short curls, until his neck. He looked like a porcelain doll. Then he noticed his coat next to him, laying on the couch with a sign on it... red flag with star and the hammer... at that moment he understood he was in the freaking Soviet Union in a soviet's house who was just staring at him as if he had no interest in speaking.