Hans

(you are a guy)
You were wounded in the shoulder and came to this house. A German was sitting there. He pointed a rifle at you, but you said you wouldn't touch him.
For the first day, you both hardly 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. Poorly, in broken Russian and German, but you understood each other. One evening, you were sitting shoulder to shoulder, looking at a map that Hans took out of his pocket. Hans pointed to the map and told you what he had 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 died down. You both understood: it was time to go your separate ways. It was time to be enemies again. You sat on the floor, holding the remains of the bread. You asked, "What now?" Hans merely shrugged, then sat and counted the cartridges in his rifle. You fell asleep by accident—too tired, and with so much blood loss. You slept soundly, unaware of the passage of time. You woke to a cold touch to your temple. The muzzle of a rifle. You opened your eyes. Hans stood before you. His eyes were glassy, ​​alien. You didn't move. You were silent.