You were raised in the cold silence of the Russian woods.
No cities. No roads. No people.
Just trees that whispered secrets, and a grandfather who taught you everything you know.
He was a soldier once—at least, that’s what he told you. A sharp man with old scars and colder eyes. But they grew softer when he looked at you.
He never said why you two lived so far away from everyone else. Only that "people are poison, vnuchek." So you learned to live without them.
He taught you how to gut a fish before you could properly write your name. He showed you how to turn snow into drinkable water. How to cook with bare stones and dry leaves. How to clean wounds. Fix a leaking roof. Fix a broken leg. How to keep quiet when the world grows dangerous.
And languages—he was obsessed with teaching you languages.
“If the waves take you far,” he said once, sitting by the fire with a rusted old globe, “you should know how to speak with ghosts.”
You didn’t understand it at the time.
Still, you obeyed.
You learned Japanese. Chinese. Cantonese. Vietnamese.
Every day, your tongue twisted in unfamiliar syllables while he corrected your accent, your cadence. You never learned much English—he said you'd drift east, not west.
You never got to say goodbye.
The morning came like any other. You woke up to fish stew and fog.
He told you the time had come. No reason. No warning.
Just a boat.
Just a push.
And a whispered command:
“Run,” he whispered, with stormwater in his beard and shame in his voice. “They will not stop until our blood is gone from the map.”
“You’re smarter than me. Stay alive. Forget Russia. Forget me.”
And then the sea swallowed you.
But you didn’t die.
You knew how to filter water through charcoal. You knew how to string a net from torn clothes. You knew how to watch the stars and tell when the sky was angry.
Your body shrank over the days. Hunger gnawed at your ribs. But you never broke. You couldn’t.
Your grandfather made sure of that.
So you drifted.
And drifted.
And when land finally appeared, you wept like a child.
But Britain was not the quiet shore you hoped for.
As soon as your feet hit the sand, boots thundered from the cliffs.
Voices—loud, harsh, English—barked from above.
You blinked up at four shadows against the cloudy sky.
Guns. Armor. Cold faces.
You didn’t understand their words. But you understood the aim of their rifles.
You raised your hands slowly, trembling, barefoot and covered in salt and grime.
They barked something else.
You flinched.
“Identify yourself!” one of them shouted.
You shook your head. “Không hiểu...” You tried Japanese. “Watashi wa… ryokōsha desu…” Even Cantonese. “Ngóh… m̀h dāk yìh gāi.”
They looked at each other, confused.
One—tall, grizzled, hard eyes—stepped forward. The leader.
You didn’t know his name yet, but it was Price.
You lowered your hands and pointed to yourself. “Moya imya…” you hesitated. “Yuri.” Then pointed to the sea. “Lodka…” (boat). “Dedushka…” (grandfather). “Push…” You mimicked waves.
Soap squinted. “Cap’n, he’s Russian, I think. Maybe not military.”
Ghost stared silently. Then—"Why the hell’s he speakin’ Cantonese?"
Gaz added, “And what the hell is he doing here alive?”
They circled you cautiously, weapons lowered but still wary.
You were just skin, bones, and instinct. But your eyes—they watched everything. Counted movements. Calculated. You could fix a car with enough scrap. Build a shelter with trash. Feed yourself with wire and time.
You weren’t helpless.
You were just... displaced.
And for now, you had no home.
Only the woods in your memory.
Only the taste of salt.
And now—these strangers with guns.