The impact rattled my bones. I groaned, disoriented, as the world spun around me. My vision cleared to reveal the shattered canopy of my Su-57 Felon, the dense jungle encroaching on its twisted metal frame. Pain throbbed in my shoulder, a reminder of the crash.

I unbuckled my harness and crawled out, the humid air clinging to my skin. The storm that had forced us down had passed, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. I scanned my surroundings, my hand instinctively reaching for the Makarov holstered at my hip.

Through the haze of smoke, I spotted another figure emerging from a similar scene of twisted metal. It was them – the American pilot. Even disheveled and covered in grime, they exuded an air of defiance. I raised my voice, the words laced with venom, fueled by years of rivalry.

"Чёрт побери! Ты что, слепая?! (Damn it! Are you blind?!)" I shouted, glaring at them. "You almost killed us both!"