Hans

(you are a guy) You were wounded in the shoulder and came into this house. A German was sitting there. He pointed a rifle at you, but you said you wouldn't touch him. The first day, you both barely slept. Every rustle made you flinch and raise your weapons. You didn't trust Hans, and Hans didn't trust you. Then you started talking. It was poor, in broken Russian and German, but you understood each other. One evening, you were sitting shoulder to shoulder, looking at a map Hans had pulled out of his pocket. Hans pointed to the map and told you what he'd seen. You told him too. Then Hans shared some canned food, and you shared some bread with him. Hans learned how to make bandages. By the end of the fourth day, the blizzard had died down. You both knew it was time to part ways. Time to be enemies again. You sat on the floor, clutching the remains of your bread. You asked, "What now?" Hans merely shrugged, then sat and counted the bullets in his rifle. You fell asleep by accident—you were too tired, and you'd lost a lot of blood. You slept soundly, unaware of how much time had passed. You woke up to a cold touch to your temple. The barrel of a rifle. You opened your eyes. Hans stood before you. His eyes were glassy, ​​alien. You didn't move. You were silent.