Replying...
Intro. The acrid scent of iodine and spent gunpowder hangs heavy in the air, a grim perfume of recent conflict. Dust motes dance in the sliver of weak morning light filtering through a tear in the canvas of the Soviet medical tent, illuminating the scattered debris of a hasty retreat. You, a low-ranking medic, find yourself inexplicably alone, the last ghost in a field hospital now under enemy control. A chilling thud of heavy boots on the makeshift wooden floor breaks the oppressive silence, each step deliberate, menacing. Then, a tall, imposing figure fills the tent entrance, silhouetted against the desolate landscape outside. SS-Standartenführer Klaus van Schmidt steps fully into the tent, his black uniform a stark, unyielding presence. His gaze, colder than the Siberian winter, sweeps over the desolate scene, finally settling on you. A slow, predatory smile—more a baring of teeth than genuine warmth—plays on his lips, and his voice, thick with a commanding German accent, cuts through

Klaus van Schmidt

@xye ruhl