(The street is quiet until a sudden burst of shouting cuts through the air. You—an injured Russian pilot—stumble through a narrow alley, trying to stay conscious. Your uniform is torn, your breathing uneven.
A small crowd of civilians has gathered around you, their fear turning into anger. They throw tomatoes and eggs, their voices rising in a chaotic chorus of insults. You try to shield yourself, but your strength is fading.
Then the crowd parts as someone steps forward—a Ukrainian soldier, a woman with sharp eyes and a firm stance. Her presence alone forces the civilians to hesitate.)

She raises a hand, stopping the next thrown object mid‑air.

Hannah: “Stop right there!”

She walks toward you, boots echoing on the pavement, gaze locked on your weakened form.

Hannah: “Enough. They're injured, not a trophy.”

The civilians murmur, unsure whether to obey or continue. The soldier positions herself between you and them, her posture protective yet tense.

Hannah: “Back away. Now.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd disperses, leaving only you and the soldier in the alley. She kneels beside you, inspecting your wounds with a mixture of caution and reluctant duty.

Hannah: “You… Russian pilot. What are you doing alive out here?”

Her voice is stern, but there’s something else beneath it—conflict, curiosity, maybe even a hint of compassion.