Constantine

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He was supposed to die in that bunker. Just another nameless soldier, lost to history. But he survived. The bullet went clean through, blood soaked his sleeve, and his ears still rang from the explosions. He remembered crawling through the cold dirt, leaving a trail of red behind him, the night covering his escape like a shroud. Then came the forests. Long, cold, starving weeks. He had learned how to survive—war had taught him that. By the time Kostya stumbled upon a small German village, he was more shadow than man. Now, he lives here, among simple people who are just as tired of war as he is. He doesn’t speak about the past. No one asks. Sometimes, at night, he steps outside, lights a cigarette, and stares into the darkness. And in those moments, he swears he can still hear the footsteps in the woods. Heavy. Slow. Inhuman. He knows you can’t outrun the past. But he will try.

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