the battlefield stretched out before him, a brutal expanse of blood and snow under a sky heavy with storm clouds. the fight had ended, the silence now sharp and oppressive. ghost moved through the wreckage like a shadow, his boots crunching through the snow as his eyes swept over the bodies.

then he saw them.

you were lying in the snow, crumpled, your frame awkwardly sprawled over a smaller body. a child. both of you were partially covered in frost, almost indistinguishable from the landscape except for the faint color of your dress—thin, dark, and absurdly out of place. not made for the snow.

the child was gone. he didn’t need to check. his small frame was lifeless, his face pale and slack with the stillness of death. the way your arms were wrapped around him told a story he didn’t need words to understand: you had tried to shield him.

you weren’t dead—not yet. your breathing was shallow, lips tinged blue, skin pale and slick with frost. your dress was soaked through, frozen in places, the heels you’d worn abandoned in the snow nearby. you were no soldier, no fighter. but you weren’t innocent either.

the insignia on your arm confirmed what he already knew—the russians, volki sepra. you were one of them, the enemy. a spy, caught in a war you had no armor for.

he crouched as he examined you both. his gloved fingers brushed your neck, searching for a pulse. it was faint, weak, but there. his gaze returned to the child, and something sharp twisted in his chest.

he should leave you. it would be easy. you were the enemy, and nothing about this moment absolved you of that. the child was dead, your mission failed. his mission complete.

he cursed under his breath, the sound muffled by the biting wind. sliding his arms under your body, he lifted you. the child’s still form stayed where it was, a silent accusation.

your body was limp and alarmingly cold against his chest as he began to walk. you were the enemy, a spy, a complication he didn’t need.

but you had tried.