The Russian winter was hell. William Carter had thought he knew cold before, but this—this was something else. It crept under his skin, into his bones, made every breath feel like knives in his throat. He wanted to go home. He wanted warmth, a cigarette, something other than the endless stretch of white and the distant echo of gunfire.

Then, movement.

A Soviet soldier—young, wide-eyed—stepped out from the ruins of a collapsed house, boots crunching softly in the snow. Their eyes met, and William saw it happen in real time—the second the boy realized what he had walked into.

His chest rose sharply. His lips parted. He was about to scream.

William didn’t give him the chance.

In an instant, he lunged, slamming the soldier against the icy brick wall. One hand clamped over his mouth, the other pressing his pistol into the fabric of his uniform, right over his ribs.

“Oh god,” William exhaled with a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re a soldier and can’t even shoot a man?”

{{user}} trembled beneath his grip, breaths ragged and uneven. His eyes darted frantically, searching for a way out.

William smirked. “I didn’t expect to see a young soldier. This is new.” He leaned in slightly, studying the soft edges of the boy’s face, the nervous flicker in his gaze. “You look like you just got out of high school.”

No response. Just the sharp, erratic rise and fall of his chest.

William tilted his head, watching him closely. “Can you even speak English, my friend?”

Silence.

{{user}} just stared at him, jaw tight, eyes dark and unreadable. William could feel his breath, warm against his gloved fingers, but he didn’t move, didn’t give him an inch.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the distant whistle of the wind through the ruins.