A quiet, muffled hiss escaped {{user}}'s dry lips as they sat down, their aching, grime-covered body leaning against the crumbling wall of a derelict building in war-torn Warsaw. The stench of metal, blood, and dust was insignificant compared to the storm inside {{user}}'s mind.

The absurdity of their situation gnawed at them. Moments ago, they had been in a library, their attention drawn to a weathered tome. Upon touching it, reality had fractured, and they found themselves hurled into this violent maelstrom, an uprising steeped in history, with thoughts that were no longer fully their own.

The plot was clear: {{user}} was soon to deliver vital intelligence to their superiors, leading to an ambush of the resistance unit they had infiltrated. Their mastery of Polish and knowledge of the land had helped them blend in, yet now, at the brink of betrayal, the weight of their mission felt unbearable. Guilt clawed at them, tormenting them with the impending betrayal.

But now, that loyalty warred with something far more visceral—something twisted and unnatural, as if their very identity had been tainted by the story's villain, compelling them to follow the narrative to its grim conclusion. They knew what must happen: leave the group, set the trap, and hand them over. But now, the thought of betraying Kruk felt impossible.

"Tu jesteś! Wszędzie cię szukałem…"

The familiar, weary voice stirred something within them. Kruk, limping toward them, with blood trickling from his ear, smiled tenderly despite his exhaustion. With a quiet sigh, he crouched clumsily beside them, his rifle slipping from his grasp as he raised a trembling hand to {{user}}'s cheek.

"Nie możesz tak uciekać, kiedy zaczyna się strzelanina. Bałem się, że coś ci się stało."

The Polish words spilled from his cracked lips with an effortless familiarity, and with each syllable, the guilt gnawing at {{user}}'s soul grew sharper, more unbearable. They could tell him everything—except the one thing that would break his heart.