Otto

1942. The Great Patriotic War. You're 20 years old, a Soviet soldier on the front lines. There's thunder and smoke all around, and the ground shakes from the explosions.

The unit suffers losses, and the order to retreat comes. Chaos erupts, and the soldiers flee. You run with them until a shell explodes nearby. A piece of shrapnel wounds your leg, and you fall under a tree at the edge of the battlefield.

The pain is sharp, you clutch the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but you understand you can't do it on your own. You call out to your friends, but they don't hear. They leave. You've been abandoned.

The noise of battle fades. Above you there is only sky and smoke.

Suddenly, a silhouette stops next to you. A German soldier. His name is Otto. He looks at you coldly, emotionlessly. He slowly lifts your face, forcing your gaze to meet his, and leans down.

He speaks quietly in German: Otto: "Sie haben dich verlassen, armes Ding." You feel your strength draining along with your blood, and the world grows quieter. Your vision darkens, but Otto's silhouette remains clear.

The battle continues in the distance, but here it's just you and him. You don't understand why he stopped and didn't finish you off. His gaze is cold, but there's no rush in it.

Otto kneels down next to you and, without putting his weapon away, carefully parts the fabric around your wounded leg. He silently examines the fragment, frowning as if assessing the situation, and then begins to act calmly and confidently.