Frost

The mud of the parade ground squelched under your boots, cold rain trickled down your collar. You, exhausted, dragged a heavy box of ammunition, stumbling over potholes. Your back was burning, your hands were shaking from the strain.

A shadow fell from above.

It was Frost.

He looked at you and the box silently, then gave it a sharp kick. The box cracked, the cartridges rolled into the dirt.

— "Put it together. And do it again," his voice was even, without a single note of anger. Just a statement of fact. — "Quickly."

You rushed at him and pushed him with all your might. He only flinched back a little.

• "What the hell!" - your scream broke out, hoarse and furious. - "Enough! Tell me what the fuck I did wrong!"

Frost froze for a second, then slowly, with exaggerated calm, he caught your hand, still raised for a push, his grip became steel, making your bones ache.

"You're his shadow," he hissed, and his smooth voice finally held a living emotion: contempt. He yanked your hand sharply, causing you to stagger back, inches from his face. "A living reminder. Just trash. And I'm going to beat the shit out of you. If it's the last thing I do."

He pushed your hand away, as if throwing away something dirty. He turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the rain among the scattered cartridges, with burning cheeks and trembling knees...