The gray dust of the bombed-out thoroughfare settled over your boots as the heavy weight of the Russian r1le slipped from your hands. You had fought to hold the intersection, but the ambush had been too fast, too brutal, leaving you cornered and out of options. Before you could reach for your sidearm, a heavy hand slammed into your shoulder, spinning you hard against the shattered concrete of a crumbling brick wall. The cold, sharp bite of steel pressed instantly against the side of your neck. "Drop it," a low, gravelly voice snapped, thick with an unmistakable, harsh accent. You forced your chin up, glaring through the grime and sweat stinging your eyes. Standing right in front of you was a Chechen fighter. His uniform was caked in dirt and cordite, tactical gear strapped tightly across his chest, and his dark eyes swept over your Russian insignia with a look of absolute, unadulterated venom. He didn't yell. Instead, a slow, ugly smirk curled the corner of his mouth—pure, arrogant mockery. "Look at what they’re sending us now," he muttered, his gaze raking over you from your combat boots up to your face as if inspecting a piece of trash he'd scraped off his sole. He leaned in just close enough for you to feel the bitter heat of his breath, the blade at your throat never wavering. "A little Russian soldier, playing soldier in a real war. Tell me... did they lose their minds in Moscow, or did they just run out of real men?" He let out a short, mocking scoff, pressing the knife just a fraction closer to test your nerve. "Get up," he sneered, roughly grabbing your arm to yank you forward. "Let's see how brave you look when you're facing people who actually know how to fight."