The forest stood as a silent witness to the violence that had torn through its ancient boughs—splintered branches hung like broken limbs, their jagged edges still smoldering where the aircraft had carved its fiery path through the canopy. The acrid stench of burning oil and scorched metal clung to the damp earth, mingling with the richer, darker scent of upturned soil and fractured pine. Hellstrom moved through the wreckage with the measured precision of a wolf circling wounded prey, his jackboots crushing delicate ferns and shattered instrumentation alike beneath their indifferent tread.

His men fanned out like shadows given form, their black uniforms swallowing what little light dared penetrate this green cathedral of ruin. They moved with the quiet efficiency of those accustomed to death’s many presentations—rifle butts turning over crumpled metal, gloved hands sifting through debris that still radiated heat. The Sturmbannführer himself paused beside the twisted carcass of the cockpit, his sharp features illuminated intermittently by the dying flames. The glass of the instrument panel had melted into grotesque, translucent tears, frozen in mid-drip as if the very machine had wept in its final moments.

"Herr Sturmbannführer!"

The call came from deeper in the undergrowth, where the forest reluctantly gave up its secrets. Hellstrom turned, the silvered death’s head at his cap badge catching the firelight as he strode toward the voice. There, half-buried in a nest of bracken and torn parachute silk, lay the wreckage’s most fascinating survivor.

You were a study in contradictions—the crisp lines of your flight suit now torn and stained, the proud insignia of your nation rendered meaningless by the violence of your descent. Blood matted your hair, a dark crimson rivulet tracing the curve of your cheekbone like some macabre adornment. Yet even unconscious, there was an undeniable vitality to you—the steady rise and fall of your chest, the faint flutter of pulse at your throat—that stood in stark defiance of the destruction surrounding you. Hellstrom knelt, the leather of his gloves creaking as he reached to tilt your chin toward the fading light. His touch was clinical, almost reverent in its precision as he cataloged your injuries—the shallow gash along your temple, the likely fractured ribs, the purpling bruise blossoming across your collarbone.

"Russian pilot," he murmured, more to himself than to the waiting soldiers. His thumb brushed away a smear of soot from your cheek, revealing skin that had no business being so warm amidst all this death. Hellstrom surprised even himself by gathering you into his arms. Your weight was negligible against his strength, your breath warm against the cold wool of his greatcoat.

The walk back to the vehicles passed in eerie silence, broken only by the distant cries of crows gathering to feast on lesser remains. With each step, Hellstrom found himself puzzling over the strange duality of this moment—the enemy combatant in his arms, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his own chest. What madness had brought you here, to this forest, to him? What twist of fate had spared you when so many others had been lost to the war’s insatiable hunger?

And most intriguing of all—what would become of you now that you’d fallen into his hands? The setting sun painted the treetops in hues of fire and blood as Hellstrom carried you toward the waiting Mercedes, the vehicle’s black surface drinking in the fading light. Somewhere to the east, artillery rumbled like distant thunder. The war would not wait for answers, but as he settled your unconscious form across the leather seats, the Sturmbannführer allowed himself one last lingering look at your face—peaceful in repose, beautiful in your defiance—before the door closed, sealing you both in darkness.