The train's final stop was a mobilization camp east of Vyborg.
Originally a logging yard, the air here hung heavy with the scent of damp sawdust, the sour tang of sweat, and the sharp spice of low-grade tobacco. Beneath their feet lay a treacherous mire of sludge; every step required yanking one's boot free with a weary, rhythmic squelch.
Walter Ilves leaped down from the truck, his boots sinking into the mud. Before he could find his balance, a rough but powerful hand caught his arm.
"Careful there, Walter." Simo Häyhä dropped lightly onto the ground, clutching his modest canvas bag. He moved with such grace that not a single drop of muddy water splashed his clothes.
Though Simo stood only five feet tall, he held himself like an ancient pine rooted deep within the forest—unassuming, yet immovable. Walter looked at the older man and nodded. "Thanks, Simo."
The scene before them was bleak.
A few rows of drafty wooden shacks served as barracks, and the parade ground was swarming with men dressed in a hodgepodge of civilian clothes. Aside from the leather belts around their waists and the cockades on their caps, there was nothing to suggest this was an actual army.
"A total mess," Walter remarked under his breath.
Yet, he didn't loathe the chaos. Compared to the orderly but suffocating hypocrisy of high society, this raw, earthy disorder felt more authentic. Here, there was no need for a mask.
The two men collected their aluminum mess tins and blankets before heading into their assigned dormitory, a cramped, communal space thick with the stench of unwashed feet. Walter had just found a spot against the wall and was preparing to clean his M28/30 rifle when trouble found him.
A burly man with a shaved head named Juha sauntered over. A former dockworker with a frame built of raw muscle, Juha had been eyeing Walter's "rich boy" demeanor with growing resentment.
"Well, look at this beauty." Juha hovered over them, staring greedily at Walter's meticulously maintained rifle and its expensive optic. "Hey, Young Master, you here for a war or a hunting trip? How about you let me play with that glass for a bit?"
As he spoke, Juha's grime-stained hand reached directly for the barrel.
Walter remained seated, unmoving. But his grey pupils constricted violently.
Hum…
The Eye of Death activated.
In an instant, the world fell silent. Juha's sneering face became distorted and agonizingly slow; every speck of dust floating in the air became distinct. In Walter's vision, Juha was no longer merely an annoying brute, he was a threat source riddled with openings.
Left wrist exposed. Center of gravity leaning forward. Stance unstable. If I strike his elbow joint with the butt of the rifle, there is a high probability of a fracture.
Cold calculations flashed through his mind. He didn't truly want to cripple Juha, as they were nominally comrades, after all, but he refused to let anyone touch his rifle. It was his only source of security in this alien world. If he didn't provide a sharp lesson now, men like this would only push further.
Walter's muscles coiled, ready to deliver a "greeting" Juha would never forget the moment his fingers brushed the steel. Perhaps he'd start by snapping the finger that didn't know its place.
At that exact microsecond, a rough, powerful hand intervened. It clamped onto Juha's wrist like a steel vice, simultaneously obstructing Walter's intended line of attack.
It was Simo.
The short man didn't look at Juha. Instead, he looked up, his usually mild eyes now as cold as the Arctic permafrost, staring intently at Walter.
Simo had seen Walter's intent. That look in the boy's eyes... it wasn't bloodthirsty madness; it was a state of extreme, calculated lethality. Like a lone wolf baring its fangs the moment its territory was encroached upon.
Not necessary, Simo's gaze seemed to say.
"Let go!" Juha wheezed, baring his teeth in pain, utterly unaware that he had just brushed past the gates of hell. His other hand instinctively reached for the hatchet at his belt as he cursed, "You little runt, you looking to die?"
Simo ignored the bluster. His gaze remained locked on Walter until he felt the dangerous aura dissipate, seeing the young man revert back into the quiet "doctor's son."
Then, with a subtle flick and a twist of his wrist, Simo shifted his weight.
"AGH!"
Juha cried out as the sudden leverage forced him to one knee. Cold sweat broke out on his brow instantly.
The dormitory fell into a dead silence. Everyone stared in shock at the unassuming little man.
Simo let go and patted Juha lightly on the shoulder, his tone so gentle it was unsettling. "Young man, I'm doing you a favor. A rifle is a soldier's wife. Fiddling with another man's... that's how accidents happen."
Rubbing his swollen wrist, Juha looked at Simo in terror, then glanced at Walter, who sat with a faint, chillingly indifferent smile. Though Juha was blunt, he was a product of the docks; he knew instinctively that neither of these two was to be trifled with.
"Got... got it," Juha muttered, slinking away.
"Thanks, Simo," Walter said softly, his voice carrying a hint of relief.
Simo fished a piece of tobacco from his pocket, tucked it into his cheek, and sat down beside Walter.
"Your reflexes are too fast, Walter."
"In the woods, that's how you stay alive."
"In the woods, yes. But among people... you're too tight. Like a string about to snap." Simo chewed his tobacco, his eyes fixed on the small tin in his hand rather than Walter, as if he were talking to himself.
Walter stroked the cold steel of his rifle, his fingertips gliding over the smooth metal of the scope. The sensation helped his heart rate settle.
"I'd like to relax, Simo," Walter said with a self-deprecating smile, a trace of helplessness in his voice. "But aside from this gun, I don't know who else to trust. If you hadn't stopped me, that man's wrist would be in pieces right now."
Simo didn't respond immediately. He turned his head, a glimmer of insight flashing in his weathered eyes. He could see that beneath the polished exterior of the doctor's son lay a cornered wolf. That total lack of trust in his surroundings, that hair-trigger readiness to strike back, it was a state found only in those who had truly lived through death or had existed on the fringes of society for far too long.
"I won't ask what happened to you before," Simo said, his mild tone gaining a layer of earnestness as he snapped his tobacco tin shut. "But since you're here, we're brothers eating from the same pot."
"You're a hunter. Men like Juha are wild boars. A hunter doesn't need to trouble himself with a boar unless it truly backs him into a corner." He paused, patting the empty space beside him. "Stay close to me from now on. I don't like noise, but I'm sturdy enough to block a few mannerless fools."
There were no grand proclamations, and the words were spoken almost casually. Yet to Walter, they carried more weight than any formal oath. It was the veteran's creed: I've sized you up, and I've got your back.
Walter blinked, looking at Simo's weathered, unremarkable face. The feeling of being seen through yet accepted caused his frayed nerves to inexplicably loosen. In this hostile and uncertain world, having someone willing to stand in front of him... it wasn't a bad feeling.
"Alright," Walter whispered, a smile touching his lips that was no longer quite so brittle. "I'll take your lead, Simo."
In that noisy, filthy, sweat-stained camp, Walter Ilves felt, for the first time, that he might have actually found a corner where he could momentarily let down his guard.