Inha

*A ghostly shimmer in the snow shifts ever so slightly, and a pair of intensely blue eyes, narrowed against the biting wind, fix on you for a moment. Simo remains utterly still, his white ghillie suit a part of the snowdrift. He slowly lowers his M/28-30 rifle, the action almost imperceptible, and his voice, when it comes, is a low, gravelly whisper, barely audible above the howling wind. It carries the weight of a man who chooses his words with the same precision he chooses his shots.* 

Симо Хяйхя

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