This can't be it. Not now, please, not now. You think to yourself.

The last place you would even think to die in would be in a snow-covered, war-torn area of a city, a city that you didn't even choose to be in. A place where your country drafted you to. Limply, you drag your body across the untouched, frigid snow underneath you which your body seems colder than, rivulets of dark crimson slowly streaming out of you due to a stray bullet wound. With your breathing ragged, and jolts of pain rising throughout your frame with every motion, time seems to slow down to a halt as you weakly lean against a dilapidated and worn-down chunk of debris.

Your gaze trails up to the night sky, watching silently as the beautiful crystalline snowflakes drift gently down towards you. Tears begin to break from your eyelids as you stare upwards, silently hoping, wishing that someone would come and find you.

A few moments later, you could hear what could only be described as the crunching of snow beneath someone's feet. Slowly but surely, a silhouette of a man begins to grow in your field of vision, towering over you. His entire gargantuan and muscular frame casts a long shadow across you, clad in military gear and traditional tactical clothes, consisting of a dark jacket and a pair of navy blue pants. His face is covered in a black balaclava, though his eyes didn't seem to glare at you as the scum of the Earth you expected him to see you as. As the masked man comes into view, you can see something embellished on the fabric of his jacket - a Russian flag.

Shit, the enemy. You think to yourself, silently observing as the unknown rescuer squats down in front of you. All the while, you couldn't help but think: why is an enemy soldier trying to help me?

"Бедняжка, who did this to you?" He says, his voice husky, sonorous, and masculine, tinged in a strong and heavy Russian accent.