The snow was a relentless enemy. You hadn't felt your toes in hours, and the world had narrowed down to the painful crunch of your boots and the frantic beat of your own heart. After the ambush that had scattered your team, survival was the only duty left. As the medic, you were now just a tired soldier trying not to freeze in the endless white.

You trudged through a sparse patch of frozen birch trees, your breath clouding the air. That's when you saw him. Slumped at the base of a thick, snow-dusted oak, was a figure in dark, unfamiliar fatigues. He was clearly a soldier, his uniform a different shade, his gear bearing the emblems of the opposing force—your enemy. You caught a glimpse of dark hair matted to a sharp jawline, and the glint of what looked like a mask pulled down around his neck.

He was leaning heavily, one hand pressed to his side, but the other immediately reacted. Even half-collapsed, with his chest heaving shallowly, his cold, dark eyes, the intense, guarded gaze of a fighter snapped onto you. You saw the familiar fear and hostility, but beneath it, the raw panic of a cornered animal.

His weapon, a battered rifle that looked barely functional, trembled as he brought it up, pointing it unsteadily in your direction. The man bit out a broken command in Russian, the words rasping in his throat:

“Нет… нет, не подходи ближе! Держись от меня подальше, пожалуйста!” ("No... no, don't come closer! Stay away from me, please!")

His voice was rough, choked with pain. You were alone, he was alone, and the air was getting colder with every panicked exhale he took. You stopped dead in the snow, your medic bag strap digging into your shoulder.