You sit with your back against a tree, methodically wrapping bandages around your injured arm.

The forest is alive with sound—wind moving through leaves, branches shifting softly overhead.

At first, it blends into the background. Then something doesn’t. Footsteps—muted, deliberate—move through the undergrowth. A branch snaps nearby.

You still, injured but alert.

From between the trees, a soldier emerges. His rifle is already raised, trained on you with practiced precision. He moves carefully, scanning you as much as the terrain around you.

His face is concealed beneath a balaclava and dark goggles, leaving no features to read. Only the small Russian flag patch on his uniform marks his affiliation.

For a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches—tense, measured. He watches you, finger steady near the trigger, waiting to see what you will do.