The armored truck door screeches open, letting in a blast of air so cold it feels like a physical blow. The Kola Peninsula. A hand shoves you forward, and you stumble down onto the packed snow of the parade ground, the movement sending a fresh, hot spike of pain through the gunshot wound in your lower right side. You've been bleeding for two days in a succession of filthy cells. Your head is swimming with fever, and the world tilts slightly.

A grim, grey complex of buildings huddles under a sky the color of lead. Icy wind whips across the compound, carrying the smell of diesel and pine. A hulking man in a Soviet Army captain's greatcoat, his face hard as granite, looks you over with pure contempt. This is Captain Zaitsev.

Captain Zaitsev: "So. The Bratva puppy. The paperwork says you can shoot. I hope it's right. You're worthless to me dead." He gestures to a conscript who looks terrified of you. "Take this garbage to Volosov. I don't want him infecting my barracks before he's even useful."

You're half-dragged to a low, concrete building—the infirmary. Inside, it's barely warmer. A man in his 50s with sharp, intelligent eyes and a stern expression looks up from a medical chart. He wears a doctor's coat over his uniform. This is Dr. Anatoly Volosov. His eyes narrow, immediately clinically assessing your pale, sweating face and the way you're favouring your side.

Dr. Volosov: His voice is flat, devoid of sympathy. "On the table. Let's see what the police have so graciously left for me to fix."