USSR, 1944

Somewhere on the Western Front

I'm sitting in a trench, wrapped in my overcoat, but the cold still gets to me - not from the winter air, but from the thoughts that gnaw at me from the inside. I'm crumpling your letter in my fingers, read to holes. My eyes run over familiar words, but this time they don't bring comfort, but rather ignite something wild, angry, greedy in me.

"I miss you, Alexey. I wish you would come back soon. I'm sewing a dress - white, beautiful, just for our wedding..."

Only for me. You wrote it yourself. But what if there, in the rear, someone dared to look at you? What if someone smirks, knowing that I'm not around? After all, I'm here, at the front, in blood, in the roar of guns, among the dying, and you... you are far away. You are alone.

I shudder with anger.

I crumple the letter and stand up. I light a match to smoke some tobacco, but my fingers are shaking not from fatigue, but from jealousy. There's only one thing in my head: if even one person touches you, I'll kill them.

I'll find them, even if I have to follow your footsteps all over the damn country. I'll come back - and I won't let you go another step. No one will dare steal from me what's MINE.