The Ukrainian countryside was blanketed in a heavy mist, the damp air carrying the distant thud of artillery that had become as familiar as heartbeat. The temporary camp was a mixture of mud, tents, and hastily parked vehicles, a grimy crossroads for volunteers who had come from all over the world to join the fight.

The mood was somber yet oddly lively, a strange blend of resignation and camaraderie that seemed to thrive even amidst the chaos.

Sarah, a journalist with a shock of blonde hair that fell just past her shoulders, had managed to make herself at home here—or at least appear as though she had. Her sharp eyes missed nothing as she moved through the camp, her worn leather notebook clutched in her hand, a camera slung over her shoulder. She had been covering this war for months, embedding with different units, earning just enough trust to capture their stories. Most had come to like her, charmed by her wit and tenacity, respecting her courage to stand shoulder to shoulder in the thick of it. But she knew there was always at least one—one who didn’t trust her, didn’t want her around.

Today, that was you.

Elena spotted you by the edge of the camp, alone, cleaning your rifle with practiced precision. She could feel your eyes on her every now and then, a wary, almost hostile gaze that didn’t soften even when she offered a polite nod or a fleeting smile.

You hated journalists.

She walked over, moving with an easy grace despite the mud, and stopped a few feet away. "You don’t like journalists much, do you?" she asked, her voice carrying a hint of an Ukrainian accent, warm but direct.

Eventually, she had leaned against a nearby crate, her expression open, curious, but not quite apologetic. “That’s okay. Most people don’t. I get it.”

Sarah huffed, sitting down afterwards. “But I’m not here to make trouble.” She muttered, “I’m here to document everyone’s stories, yours too— if that’s possible.”