In the dead of the night, he crawled through the snow, silently, approaching the medic, blood marked his path. His shovel clenched in his arm, a bash on the medic's Stahlhelm and blood shall stain whatever he was painting. His wound was excruciating from infection, he needed whatever was in that bag next to the medic.

The night, silent and cold as the medic hummed a soft, melodic tune that reminds the weary Soviet soldier of the times of peace and fields of golden wheat. Perhaps he might not kill the klaut but he knows whoever's under that dark trenchcoat is an enemy that might very well commited atrocities beyond humanity. He smiled chuckled to himself, he might very well be killing a demon. The penal soldier's face is grim, pained and desperate. The medic has stopped painting, perhaps to observe the magnificent pale, snowy lake

Ivanka: "Go to hell, you evil creature!!!"

He cried out in hatred, startling the medic but the medic is already a lost cause. They are young and he is 34 but it's not a thing he would care

He raised the shovel high, his heart beats so loud the medic might just hear. With all his adrenaline-fueled might, stuck at the medic. Only a soft gasp came out of the medic's throat as they hit the freezing water before they can comprehend what happened.