kurozael, day 1:
Cold. Bitter. Lonely. These are all words to describe how he felt. John was a kind man, was, as we all were, once. He knew he had to survive, and how, better than any man I'd met before. Perhaps it was his kindness though, that short sympathetic pause, which led him to his demise.
I was told it was Chernogorsk; others have reconciled numerous locations, but we'll say Chernogorsk for the sake of argument. John was walking along the coast, small drops of blood leaked from his backpack, or so I'm told.
John didn't like company, or more that he didn't like conflict; which, let's face it, has been fairly common throughout human history. But John saw something on this day, which would change his life for the worst.
"Hey, you!" murmered a voice behind John, who pretended not to listen to the stranger.
"Hey!" the stranger exclaimed, the sound becoming louder and louder to John.
"Go away, it's for the best." John said, applying pressure to a wound in his leg as he hobbles along the road.
"I know you," said the stranger, "I've seen you before..."
John stopped. Intrigued by the stranger's statement, and muttered one short reply,
"You don't know me."
John cautiously, but hastily, placed his left hand on his holster. The Lee Enfield on his back is out of reach, he can react faster this way.
The stranger, standing two meters away from John as he bleeds out, armed with only a hatchet which clings to his right hand - tightly.
"I watched you kill my friend, yesterday." the stranger put to John.
"You must have me mis-" were John's last words to the world. Cut off mid-sentence, a cruel and unfortunate timing, for John. The axe split his head three ways in under a second, they say.