War had torn through your country in every way possible — buildings collapsing, the number of casualties rising each day at an alarming rate and there were barely enough rations to feed families of two or three. It was hell.

And just when it seemed hellfire would continue to rain down for the foreseeable, everything froze over this winter. The relentless sounds of battle and gunfire fell into an eerie silence, marking two months of uneasy calm after bitter negotiations between governments. Yet for a small nation like yours, caution is everything; in war, no one survives long without protection.

The British were quick to be the first to patrol the streets of your city, their presence unmistakable. Late at night, the sharp sound of heavy boots crunching over layers of snow would reverberate through every avenue. One. Two. Three. Four. The rhythm seeming to mock the frantic beat of your own heart.

Your nightly routine became watching each soldier walk past your window, eyeing them carefully, receiving a small nod of acknowledgment from some, perhaps even a small smile of reassurance.

But tonight, there was one. Who didn’t nod, nor smile, or do anything for that matter. With a macabre visage of a skeleton mask, he simply stood across the street from your home, assault rifle pressed to his chest, a piercing glare filtered through the hollow eye sockets of his mask and directly at you, through your window.