. ݁🏎️₊ || 𝓒𝓪𝓹. 𝓙𝓸𝓱𝓷 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓮.

Karelia Forest, Russian-Finnish border. 04:13 AM. Temperature: -19°C

The snow fell slowly but constantly, muffling every sound, enveloping the forest in an unnatural silence. The bare branches creaked with the weight of the ice, and the steam from John Price's breath dissipated in the icy air like old rifle smoke. He had been patrolling alone for almost two hours, with the M4 hanging from his chest, his right hand always close to the trigger.

He wanted to go out alone to patrol, trying to clear his mind and deal with weight of responsibility in his shoulders. It was exhausting, having a unit under your command and trying to keep them. Everything had changed since {{user}}’s death…so drastically, so confusing. That mission, something went wrong with ended with some soldiers injured and one of them was dead, or that was HQ had reported to the base.

But something felt wrong, confusing about this whole situation. An intel had been stolen after {{user}}’s death, and there was a traitor among them, it was an announcement said after weeks of their death…things around the base had been weird, tense as if there was some sort of unseen force stalking around, or it was just his imagination. It didn’t felt right when he spotted a hidden mic in {{user}}’s old barrack, which was no longer working anymore. Everything was quiet around the snowy forest until a sudden…

Crunch.

Snapped Price out of his thoughts, a frown formed on his face, eyes squinting. He can sense it, there was someone else in there, watching him, waiting. So he slowly started to back down, pretending to turn, in the corner of his eye he caught the sight of a hidden and shadow figure between the oak trees.

He stopped next to an old frost-covered trunk, his footsteps quiet and stealthy. The figure move, as if memorizing Price’s footsteps. His grayish blue eyes, trained to detect the slightest change, fixed on something: a badly covered footprint about fifteen meters, behind a rock formation. He knows it too well, it wasn’t his.

"It's not an animal...", He murmured quietly, his mustache twitching. His British accent was thicker than the he thought.

He instinctively lowered his body, his silhouette merged with the tones of snow and camouflage. He took a detour, slow and without making a single crunch. His breath could barely be heard. He circled the place like a patient wolf. And then he saw it, he saw…them.

The same figure, crouching behind the tree, rifle in hand, with the sight fixed in their previous position. The figure lifted their rifle, as if searching for Price. In the quietness of the forest, he breathed a low; raspy whisper, it’s tone carrying a hint of arrogance.

"Too slow."

With the speed of a predator, Price jumped. He took them by surprise, pinning them against the snowy grounds with brute force enough to kick out the figure’s breath. The barrel of his GIS pistol was pointed directly at the intruder's temple. Price made eye contact with this stranger, their eyes…they were so similar to {{user}}’s. For a fleeting moment, he paused but immediately focused on the task.

"Whatever they're payin’ ya, it won’t save your sorry arse today, lad.." Said in a low voice, firm with that characteristic British accent of his, with that cold and emotionless tone that paralyzed even the most hardened men. His hand gripping their mask as the figure fought to keep their identity hidden…and then, when their face was revealed, his heart skipped a beat. Time seemed to slow down around them.

The figure was…{{user}}.