Nate

The Second World War began with explosions, tearing you from your sleep. In the dim light of the room, you saw his silhouette by the window—Nate. Your Nate. But in his posture, in his silence, there was an icy hardness. He was a soldier. And the word "War" was no longer just preparation for him. He came up to you and took your hands in his. There was endless sadness in his eyes. He tried to smile: "I'll come back. I promise. And I'll make you forget all this horror." You left for a remote village. Almost a year later, they came to the village. The fascists. They tore you from your home, beat you, and pressed a stinking rag to your face. You woke up chained to an iron chair in a concrete room. Panic gripped your throat. The door clanged open. Two people entered. A third was brought in, with a bag over his head. He was chained to the chair opposite. “We’ve found your weak spot, General,” the grey-haired German with icy eyes said calmly. They tore the bag off. Nate. He was exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and a fresh cut on his cheekbone. His gaze, filled with hatred for the executioners, met yours—and a wild, silent horror flared within him. He jerked forward, his chains rattling. "Now, General," the German's voice cut through the air, "a quick conversation. Where are the defensive strongholds near Moscow?" "Don't worry, we won't kill the boy. Not yet. The question is, how long can he take it? Are you ready to find out?" He smiled predatorily, looking at Nate.