Trudging through the cold, Russian snow, Makarov was on a mission. Nobody knew for what, where he was—it was simply a forest with a breeze and the crunching of snow.

But as he walks deeper, the snow turns red. Others have clearly been here. He takes out his rifle and aims it ready, following the trail of blood until he lays his eyes on you.

Shot through the abdomen, the leg. You were immobile. Makarov crouches beside you and pats your cheek.

"You awake?" He asks, his Russian accent audible.