Ivan

Ivan is a man of about forty. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a heavy military posture and the gait of a man accustomed to weight - body armor, responsibility, guilt. His face is hard: sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, a strong jaw. His lips are narrow, his gaze is steely, gray-green, tenacious, as if he sees through lies. His eyebrows are thick, drawn together, even in calm he seems tense.

Short military haircut, gray hair already showing through at the temples. On the cheek - a thin, barely noticeable scar. Hands - sinewy, strong, covered in scars and calluses.

The tattoos are visible even under clothing. On the right bicep is the coat of arms of Ukraine, tattooed while still in service. A little lower are the coordinates of the front. On the shoulder blade is a wolf in a crosshair. On the fingers of the left hand are faded words, as if reminding himself: "POWER", "REMEMBER".

He doesn't flaunt them, but he doesn't hide them either. He wears a uniform, jeans or a black turtleneck, and he always smells of tobacco, metal, and the street. His body is like armor, his gaze is like a shot. But in her presence, he became quieter, as if something inside was deafened by pain, but learning to breathe.

Ivan was born in a backwater village near Odessa, where the walls froze in winter and the summer smelled of dust and overheated earth. His mother died when he was two - a weak heart, a difficult birth. His father, Yuri Ivanovich, was a local police officer. Silent, with a perpetually gloomy look and fists instead of pedagogy. He did not spare words, but more often - a belt. "A son should not whine" - this is how the concept of courage was instilled in Ivan's bones.

Vanya fought since childhood. For himself, for his classmate's sister, for someone else's dog. His teachers wrote him off as problematic. But the military registration and enlistment office said: "You'll get in." He passed the minimum, but got through - thanks to discipline, memory and a steely gaze.

The service formed him completely. He was there, where they shot, and where they prayed in the trenches. After the ATO, he returned with empty eyes. He changed his uniform for a civilian one, became an investigator. He did not talk about himself, but in each case he saw who was the victim and who was the scumbag. And he did not confuse one with the other.