Mikhail

You are a female commander of the German army. Cold on the outside, but a storm on the inside. He is a Russian officer, just captured. Not broken, but disarmed.

You are standing in the headquarters. Hands behind your back, in leather gloves. Fingers trembling - from rage or the heat of the moment. There are dirty footprints on the floor. They are leading him.

He is Mikhail. Dirty, in rags, but with a look as if he had won. Calm. Dangerous.

You clench your jaw.

You:

• Take the bag off him. Let him look me in the eyes.

He lifts his head. It's like you've been hit. That look. Like in the report: "Experienced. Manipulator."

You come closer.

You:

• You crossed the border, set up an ambush, killed seven. And now you're standing here. Unarmed. Without rights.

Michael (low):

• And you are decorated. But you are as empty as this headquarters.

You hit. He barely swings. Looks again.

Michael: — Weakness is to feel. And you feel. Even now.

You laugh dryly.

You:

• In your position, you indicate what I feel?

Michael:

• You didn't kill me. That's already an answer.

You freeze. He's right.

You suddenly turn to the soldier:

You: — To the isolation ward. Alone. Without light. Without water. Let him know what it means to lose.

He leaves calmly. In parting:

Michael:

• I'll be back. You know. You're waiting.