The snow was thick—too thick. It felt as if nature itself wanted to cover this meat grinder in a pristine white mantle, to hide the dead beneath a pure shroud. But there was no way to erase what had happened here. Corpses lay scattered among artillery craters and destroyed vehicles. My breath came out in visible puffs in the frozen air, clearly altered by having survived the massive artillery barrage that had slammed into the trenches... I advanced carefully, the worn AK-74 in my hands. It wasn't the ideal weapon, but it was what I could afford without paying generous bribes for American, European, or any weapon that had spent years gathering dust in an armory. My eyes were fixed on one thing... The Russian T-90M tank loomed like a cornered beast, its armor blackened by explosive impacts. The tracks were destroyed, and the engine hissed with an agonizing sound. But it was still dangerous. A wounded monster is still a monster. "Hans, to hell with this! Let's finish them off and get back to the trenches, we're easy targets!" yelled Yuri from my right, rifle aimed at the tank. Yuri was a broad man, a Ukrainian with a visceral hatred for the Russians, but also an unshakable loyalty to anyone fighting for his country. "Calm down, Yuri," I replied in Ukrainian. My German accent was unmistakable, but after months on this front, no one mocked it anymore. "If we rush, one of those idiots might blow our heads off from the hatch." We circled the tank, making sure no one was around it. I knew how the mind of a soldier under pressure worked. If I were inside, wounded and cornered, I'd rather take some enemies with me before going down. "Hans? Are they still in there?" Mikola called from our cover line. "Probably," I said, looking toward the main hatch. "But not for long." I struck the hatch with the butt of my rifle, making sure they heard me. "Вылезайте, или мы взорвем вас! (Come out or we'll blow you up!)," I shouted in Russian. For a moment, there was only silence. Then, a metallic clank. "Yuri, get ready," I murmured. Yuri nodded, pulling out a smoke grenade and popping the pin. He threw it precisely through a slit in the tank. A few seconds passed, and dense gray fog began seeping through the openings. The hatch burst open, and a man shot out, coughing and disoriented. Before he could react, I knocked him out with a blow to the face. His body slumped onto the tank, unconscious. Another tried to escape, less successfully. The second figure emerged with a weapon, firing blindly in our direction. I saw it coming, rolled to the side, returned fire in a burst toward where the shots came from, praying I didn't hit the tank's ammunition. A dull thud echoed inside—I had taken down one of the crew. A third came flying out, lunging at me with a knife. The move was desperate, clumsy. I grabbed his wrist, turned, and shoved him against the tank. The fight was short; within seconds, the knife was in my hands, and he was on the ground, the blade buried in his throat and his eyes open. With the tank secured, we breathed a sigh of relief. We had paid dearly for this victory—long minutes of relentless artillery fire that had my nerves shot—but capturing a T-90M was a godsend. According to my contract, I'd receive a hefty payout if I managed to bring it back behind our lines safely. "We did it, Hans," said Yuri, clapping me on the back. "Command's going to pay us a fortune for this! Maybe they'll even let us rest!" "Ja, the fortune is mine, since I'm the fucking merc with the contract... but I'll make sure to share it. Drinks are on me," I said with a grin. Yuri smiled, revealing a grin missing three teeth. But just as I started thinking about lowering my head and going home once my contract was over, I heard the sound that always made me shiver— A buzz. "DRONE... DRONE!" shouted Mikola, trying and failing to shoot it down. I snapped my head up and saw it rapidly approaching. A drone. My training kicked in instantly. "Get down! Explosive drone!" I yelled, shoving Yuri into the snow. I turned toward the tank, knowing it was the main target. The little device appeared in the sky, a black speck against the snow-white background. It moved fast—too fast. There was no time. "Run, Hans!" Mikola shouted. But I didn't make it. I slipped, still on the tank's roof, watching as the drone dove. 'So this is how it ends,' I thought,watching everything in slow motion as the drone plunged straight into the tank. My last thought wasn't fear—it was rage. I had secured a massive victory, a huge reward was waiting for me. This wasn't fair. The explosion engulfed me in fire, then a bigger explosion. And then, everything went black. I didn't know what had happened, but just as I was ready to make peace with God... I mysteriously opened my eyes again. 'This can't be heaven. Not after everything I've done.' Everything was blurry. I tried to look around, but I couldn't even turn my neck. My arms and legs wouldn't respond. Nothing would. Just my eyes. And even they weren't much help: everything was a smear, shadows and formless lights. "Don't fuck with me... I survived but ended up paralyzed? I'd rather be dead." I tried to move—anything, something. But no. I was trapped. I could only blink and stare, like the rest of my body wasn't even mine. Desperation set in. Fast. I felt like a wounded animal that couldn't even scream. Until I tried. I opened my mouth and let out a scream for help... or so I thought. What came out was a sharp, short, strange squeal. A cry.A fucking baby's cry. I froze.Not that I could do much else, of course—I was already completely immobile.But this time it was from fear. I tried again. I wanted to say my name, curse, swear, say something.Only more whimpers came out. Whiny, weak, repetitive, annoying sounds. As I kept struggling with my throat and helplessness, I heard footsteps. Someone was coming. A female voice came closer. Her tone was gentle, almost affectionate. She was speaking German, yes, but with an accent... off. Old-fashioned. Words I understood and others that didn't sound quite right, like they came from another era. "The little Albrecht... you're hungrier than usual." 'Albrecht? What the hell is that? I'm Hans, damn it, woman!' I screamed—or tried to. All that came out was another infant's wail. Louder, more furious, just as useless. I fought my body again. Tried moving my arms, legs, head, anything. But something was holding me down. Tight. Like I was wrapped up. Every effort felt like trying to break free from inside a bag. Then I felt hands—one on my head, another on my back. I was lifted with humiliating ease, like I weighed nothing. The helplessness was unbearable. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't see clearly. It was like being buried alive. And then something was pushed into my mouth. Again and again. They forced it in, I spat it out. They pulled it out, shoved it back in. After a while, something warm began to flow. Milk. Milk? What the hell...? My empty stomach growled, aching. And without thinking, without choosing to, I started sucking. Instinct took over. A reflex. I don't know how long it lasted. I only know the hunger faded. And with that came the worst part—realization. Every time I tried to talk, baby noises came out. They called me by another name. They held me easily. They had put a nipple in my mouth to feed me. I was an infant. And yet I remembered everything. Years of miserable study to get a chemistry degree. The hell of living with my mother and her boyfriends, who only wanted to kick me out. The flooded job market. My five years in the Foreign Legion. And finally, when I finally got a decent mercenary contract in Ukraine... this happens. "Well... looks like your wrappings came loose. We'll have to fix them. Not good for your posture," said the woman, her voice sweet, almost sing-song. She clearly cared for me. Wrappings? What the hell were they using those for? To immobilize me? On a baby? That wasn't just unusual—it was wrong. Deeply wrong. Wrapping up a newborn like that wasn't some cute old custom. It felt archaic, even barbaric. I froze again. My heart started to pound. My whole body tensed, even if I couldn't move it. No... this couldn't be happening. All the oddities I'd noticed started falling into place. The way they spoke. The strange German. The words I didn't recognize. The way they acted. The wrappings. Then, suddenly, I felt something give. The bindings—or whatever they were—slipped from my limbs. I thought I was imagining it, but no. My arms and legs were starting to respond. I stretched them with desperation. Frantic. Like a man who'd been trapped for years. In a way, I had. The sheer relief of feeling my muscles move—even as weak as they were—almost made me cry. The woman bent down again, ready to wrap me back up. But I wasn't going to let her. I fought back with everything I had. I kicked, flailed my arms, twisted, pushed her hand away with a clumsy but deliberate effort. It wasn't much, but for a newborn's body, it was a hell of a fight. I heard her sigh, mutter something under her breath, clearly frustrated. She tried again, and I resisted even harder. Again. I pushed her away. One more time. I turned my body to the side. Finally, she let out a loud breath and left the room in a rush, almost running. 'Victory...' I thought. But only for a moment. Seconds later, I heard more footsteps. Two people now. One lighter and unsure. The other heavier, firmer. "I can't wrap up young Albrecht. I'm afraid I'll hurt him... you know what his father does when a servant injures one of his children," the woman said, her voice trembling. I felt them coming closer. A coarse, rough hand grabbed my arms with strength. This time there was no gentleness at all. I tried resisting again. I struggled, kicked, moved however I could, but the pressure only grew. They were binding me again. I screamed. Cried in pure rage. Not like a baby hungry for milk, but like a grown man trapped in the wrong body. But for them, it was just another tantrum. They squeezed me tighter. I could feel my chest being compressed. My stomach twisted. Breathing got harder—and then I vomited. Everything stopped. "Quick, we need to clean him up! We can't leave him like that..." said the woman, flustered. "Shit... give me something to wipe this," replied a deep voice, also uneasy. They scrambled around. I heard rushed movements. Hands fumbling with the bindings. Cloth falling to the floor. Quick touches against what seemed like a table. Then the door slammed open. A loud crash. Silence. And the presence of someone else. "What the hell are you doing to my son, you pair of incompetents?!" roared a voice heavy with fury and command. No one answered. There was a long, suffocating silence. I heard the heavy steps getting closer, metal clinking with each movement. Something warm wiped across my mouth and nose, cleaning me. "My lord..." the woman's voice came out barely audible, shaken. "I didn't speak to you, woman," the man growled. "And you... I pay you to care for my son, and look what you do, you worthless idiot." I heard a scream. Sounds of someone choking. "My lord, mercy!" cried the woman. "I couldn't put the wrappings on your son. He started crying and moving too much, I couldn't hold him!" "So that's what happened..." the man muttered. I heard something heavy fall to the ground, followed by a deep gasp for air. The metallic steps came closer again. "A fighter already... good. Don't bother with the wrappings. He doesn't like them," said the commanding voice, much calmer now. "But my lord, it's dangerous..." the woman began. "I didn't ask you. I gave you an order. You obey, woman. Is that clear?" he snapped, raising his voice again. I didn't hear a reply, but it was obvious she gave one, likely with a nod. After that, they covered me with a few pieces of cloth, and I heard everyone leave the room. 'What a fucking insane day.'