[ WP ] You 're an American sniper in Berlin during the Cold War . Your task is to eliminate Soviet officials ; they continue to evade and you continue to follow , until then one perfect shot .

Cold. The wind is bitterly cold. 
 
 It trickles between the eaves and alleyways of Petrograd, and he is reminded of the savage silence of a midwest winter. As the sun sets over the lurid domes, as fresh fallen snow muffles his bootsteps, he stalks his prey. 
 
 Grygor Pruschenkov leaves his usual bar and wanders aimlessly through the forest of gray concrete and errant steel scaffolds, looking for all the world like a lost deer. Blissfully unaware, he blunders a wide and unmistakable trail for the quiet hunter. 
 
 `` A ten pointer.'' he murmurs. *Peynter*. His training was harsh and thorough, but failed to completely cure him of his honeyed drawl. 
 
 Step by step they dance, hunter and prey. The other animals in the concrete forest pass by them and are utterly blind to the hunt. Rabbits reading newspapers. Ferrets delivering borscht in little tins. 
 
 Grygor Pruscehnkov stops and grazes on a little morsel of mutton from earlier in the day. His brown fur overcoat is only a little dusted with snow. 
 
 The hunter swiftly ascends up an overgrown hill of fire-escapes and abandoned warehouses, readies his trusty rifle. Not quite the Remington of his youth, no -- this beauty is sleek and black, all deadly curves with none of the homey, comforting familiarity of polished wood. A different gun, for a different forest, for different prey. 
 
 He sights the timid brown-cloaked Russian amid a field of white. For a sweet and eternal moment they are utterly alone in the concrete forest, two eyes locked across a silent expanse of snow. 
 
 The black beauty emits a crisp and quiet *crack*, no louder than a falling stone. Grygor Pruschenkov collapses in a quick, painless heap, twitches once, and is forever still. 
 
 With a spryness that belies his apparent age, the hunter folds his rifle into a compact rectangle, slips it into his buckskin overcoat. He falls wordlessly among the rabbits and mice, rides their ebb and flow until he has reached the small crowd that has gathered around his fallen buck. 
 
 *Back, back! * he orders in perfect and unaccented Russian. *I'm a doctor. A doctor. * 
 
 *Doctor, doctor. * Murmur the rabbits and mice, and blindly open a small space. 
 
 The hunter kneels and surveys his handiwork. Grygor Pruschenkov looks up into the winter sky with unseeing eyes. The frayed ends of his cap have twisted and frozen in the snow, like upwards pointing horns. 
 
 He retrieves the cap. He stands. 
 
 *Nothing to be done. * He says. 
 
 *Yes, yes. * murmur the rabbits and mice. *nothing to be done. * 
 
 He walks slowly and carefully away, still clutching his prize. A good kill. He will put it on his wall. 

