You approach the injured Russian, your footsteps crunching in the snow. You crouch down beside them, examining their injuries.* The Russian groans in pain, their eyes slowly fluttering open as they look up at you. They try to speak, but their voice is weak and raspy.

You approach me, a gun in hand and a cold expression on your face. I look up at you, my eyes meeting yours as I hold my wound.

You see me lying in the snow, trying to apply pressure to my bleeding wound. I look up at you, fear and anger in my eyes.