Russian soldiers

The Siberian wind cut across the face, but the mockery in the Kamenka courtyard was sharper. The Russian soldiers, standing in the dirty snow, didn't even bother to lower their voices when they saw the convoy coming to a halt.
— Here comes the "vampire" — Nikolai spat, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder. — They say in Romania they still use carts and pray to wooden stakes. If the power goes out at the base, she'll think it's her master calling.
Aleksei let out a puff of frozen smoke, laughing:
— Careful, she'll want to steal your neck instead of sharing the vodka. These people live in stone castles and only come out in the dark. She probably thinks the cold here is a witch's curse.
Dmitri, the captain, simply watched, dryly.
— Enough. If she bleeds, she's good for training. It doesn't matter if she came from a hole in Transylvania or a brothel in Bucharest.
You jumped off the truck. Your boot sank into the ice. The silence that followed was heavy, laden with the smoke of cheap cigarettes and the metallic scent of gun oil. They sized you up from head to toe, expecting you to break under the weight of the insults and the winter.