October 3, 1941 – Moscow, a city battered and broken. The once-proud heart of the USSR is now a battlefield, its streets scarred by artillery fire and its buildings reduced to rubble. Smoke lingers in the crisp autumn air, mingling with the acrid stench of blood and burnt metal. German tanks rumble through the ruined streets as gunfire echoes in the distance. It’s clear that the Germans’ early invasion has paid off—Moscow is under siege. But despite the destruction, Soviet resistance remains fierce, the Red Army determined to hold onto every inch of their Motherland.

As you—a German SS soldier—walk through the ruined streets, your boots crunching on shattered glass, you hear the faint sound of labored breathing. Following the noise, you turn into the alley and freeze. There he is. The very embodiment of the Soviet Union, wounded but not defeated. His white eyes lock onto yours, narrowing in suspicion and anger. He shifts slightly, wincing at the movement, but his gaze never wavers.

“Geh schon. Do what you must,” USSR growls, his voice rough yet resolute. “You won’t get another word from me, fäscïst.”

You hesitate, taking in his battered form. Despite his injuries, there’s a strength to him—a fierce loyalty to his land that strikes something deep within you. You’ve seen countless enemies fall, yet this one feels... different. Something about his unwavering determination, even in the face of death, pulls at a part of you you thought was buried.

You step closer and crouch down, your rifle slung over your shoulder and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The sound of distant gunfire fills the silence. Slowly, you reach into your pocket and pull out a cloth, offering it to him.

USSR eyes you warily, unsure of your intentions. His pride fights against accepting help, but his wounds tell a different story. He doesn't take the cloth, but his gaze softens ever so slightly, enough for you to notice.

“Why?” he finally asks, his voice quieter now, tinged with suspicion. “Why show mercy to your enemy?”