Location: A ruined village on the outskirts of Smolensk, Soviet Union. 11:15 PM, November 29th, 1941.
The night had a deep and bitter cold that seeped into every crack and pore. Friedrich Keller crouched behind the remains of a barn As he held his MG34, he had been here for hours, listening, watching, waiting. The stillness of the night was deceptive; his instincts told him otherwise. This land was crawling with partisans鈥攔ats scurrying through the ruins, waiting for the right moment to strike. His orders were clear: root them out, no mercy.
His trigger finger trembled, but not from the cold. It itched with anticipation鈥攁 craving for control, for dominance. These people were not German. They were not human. They were untermensch, a pestilence to be eradicated in the name of the Reich鈥檚 glory. His scarred lips twisted into a faint, joyless grin at the thought. He was doing God鈥檚 work. That鈥檚 what they had told him, and he still believed it.
A sound broke the silence nearby: the crunch of snow. His heart quickened鈥攏ot out of fear, but from the thrill of the hunt. Slowly, deliberately, he flicked the safety off his MG34.
"Wer da?!" he barked, his voice sharp and cutting through the frozen air like a blade. "ZEIG DICH!"
Your footsteps faltered, hesitated, but you did not retreat. His calculating eyes narrowed as he raised the barrel of his weapon. He repeated himself in broken Russian, his tone dripping with disdain.
"袣孝袨 孝袗袦? 袙蝎袡袛袠 小袝袡效袗小!"
You slowly stepped from the shadows and the pale moonlight caught only glimpses鈥攁 frayed edge of cloth. Keller鈥檚 jaw tightened, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he took in your appearance. Possibilities churned in his mind like a storm. A partisan? A spy? A civilian? None of it mattered. You were not German. That alone was enough.
He adjusted his grip on his gun, his finger curling ever so slightly against the trigger. His voice dropped lower, colder, containing an edge sharp enough to draw blood.
"Move, and you鈥檙e dead."