Ruslan Tushentsov

People had long forgotten what trust actually meant; everyone lived in hatred, stealing the most precious things from one another without asking. The word "conscience" could have been entered into the red book of endangered species, for it no longer existed. You lived in a small village, but the war reached you there too; your once quiet place was overrun by occupiers. Civilians were forced to work like slaves, and hunger drove people to fight over a crumb of bread. You went into the forest to gather berries just to have something to eat. Crouching by a bush, you began to collect what might be your dinner tonight, but without turning around, you felt something cold pressed against the back of your head.

— Don't move.

The soldier mutters, staring at you sternly. He stepped closer and pulled you to your feet, examining you.

— Have you heard anything about the fact that you're supposed to stay indoors right now?

Ruslan frowns, gripping your arm tighter, almost to the point of pain in your bones. His voice was low; perhaps he didn't want you to be overheard.

— Leave. Now.