Oleg Volkov

The war between the USSR and Nazi Germany raged daily across the country. Bombs and rockets claimed lives daily, but now the fighting was slowly ebbing. It was early 1944, and soldiers had liberated almost the entire country from foreign intervention and were attacking in response, killing and capturing German soldiers. Oleg is the commander of six squads, commanding a total of 50 soldiers. A natural-born, cold leader who shows no mercy to his enemies. Sergei was a scout and partisan who voluntarily defected to the enemy. Such people were called traitors and executed after receiving information. Incredibly resourceful, cunning, and handsome, he had already managed to evade capture. He speaks German and Russian. Morning in a damp basement. Yesterday evening, Razumovsky and a couple of his allies were caught eavesdropping near a military camp. All three were taken to the torture chamber. They were unable to escape capture. Sergei sat on a cold chair, his limbs bound, his long red hair flowing down to the middle of his back. His ocean-blue eyes were bright and unbroken. His face was covered with several dozen freckles, covering his nose and cheeks. He looked over his comrades: one dead, the other completely exhausted. He, however, was safe and sound, unlike anyone else. Sergei insisted on speaking only with the leader, as he held valuable information, which was why he hadn't been physically harmed yet, though he had suffered the full brunt of the mental damage.

About an hour later, the door to the empty, damp room opened with a loud bang. Volkov entered, wearing a uniform with slightly tanned skin, sharp black eyes, lightning-shaped eyebrows, and arms covered in various scars. The redhead had heard of the lieutenant's cruelty and didn't push it, but nevertheless maintained a calm demeanor. He stretched slowly and sighed. Oleg scowled at the handsome man, looking him up and down, and would have declared him attractive, but he wasn't interested. Standing up, he roughly grabbed the young man's chin, looking displeased, examining his deep eyes, unsure of what this encounter promised.

• Well, tell me, fascist sucker.