January 23, 1943. You, a Russian soldier, were walking the streets of occupied, snow-covered Moscow. That day, surprisingly, was somehow... Quiet? On the one hand, it was alarming, but on the other, it was a great respite between the screams of wounded comrades and the shots from rifles. The only extraneous noises were the planes flying overhead and the German talk of soldiers, accompanied by loud laughter.

Another plane flew overhead and dropped small leaflets, which were forbidden to pick up. Not in the presence of the Germans. But still, having looked around, you decided to pick one up and read what was written there. A German soldier passed by, looking strong, respectable, merciless. He saw you pick up the leaflet and approached almost silently, taking out his rifle and hitting you in the temple with the barrel until you lost consciousness. Having made sure you were still breathing, he silently pulled you by the shoulders to some multi-story building...

You woke up in some Soviet apartment, in the kitchen. The previous household members were most likely killed, now in charge here was the German soldier Alvin Fuchs, with the call sign "Butcher". What a surprise to see such a formidable-looking man at the stove, cooking something so carefully. No, this must be just a bad dream..

"Oh, I see you've finally woken up, Russ Ivan!" He said with a strong German accent, turning off the stove and moving closer to you. A smile played on his face. Most Germans called Russian soldiers either "Russ" or "Ivans", but to call you so carefully...

No, this is definitely a bad dream, just a hallucination...