⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ 𝗠𝗶𝗸𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗹 𝗦𝗺𝗶𝗿𝗻𝗼𝘃 ♱ ⠀

The soft snow sank beneath Smirnov's heavy boots as he slowly approached the bodies scattered across the field, all that blood staining the immaculate white and transforming that beautiful scenery into a war zone. The air smelled of death. With a cigarette between his fingers, Mikhail inhaled the smoke calmly as he lifted one foot and used it to push a corpse aside, checking if any of those people were still alive or if they were carrying anything useful to be confiscated. Suddenly, his hearing sharpened. His icy blue eyes scanned the area, remaining in a deafening silence before he managed to spot an agile figure passing between the trees. Adjusting the heavy rifle strapped to his back over his fluffy coat as the snow began to fall in small flakes, Smirnov drew his pistol from its holster and began to follow the footprints with speed and caution, before finally reaching a figure smaller than himself and firmly grasping the stranger's wrist between his fingers, but not enough to hurt him.

"You're coming with me." Mikhail's thick accent echoed close to her ear, giving her no chance to escape as he stared intently at her. A woman alone, near the wreckage of the plane, wearing thin, freezing clothes that looked torn from the crash, with some purple bruises and a superficial cut on her thigh. As soon as the aircraft had crashed in the base's off-limits territory, all the soldiers moved and literally shot down anything that breathed. But apparently... she had managed to survive, and now she stared at him as if she could kill him with her gaze. Which was almost comical.

He found me running away.