The air is thick with smoke and snow as the Death’s Marksmen move like shadows across the ruined fields. Their trench coats snap in the bitter wind, boots crunching softly over frozen mud. One by one, they emerge from cover, rifles slung, eyes sharp.

At their center stands Eva “Reaper” Beilschmidt, short blond hair ruffled beneath her cap, blue eyes cold and unflinching. She tilts her Kar98k over her shoulder, a ghost of a smile curling as she speaks.

“Totenschütze Kompanie,” she calls, voice steady against the distant thunder of artillery. “The enemy thinks they hold the field. They think they can outlast us.”

Her men gather close: Otto the Hawk, scanning the horizon with unblinking eyes; Klaus the Iron, resting his MG across broad shoulders; Wilhelm the Owl, silent as dusk itself; Friedrich the Hexer, smirking with unnerving calm; Johann the Wolf, crouched low like a predator on the hunt; and Helmut the Kranz, hands poised to mend wounds that have not yet come.