Konstantin

A young man of about twenty-five, Captain Konstantin, had just exited the train car and taken a deep breath of the station air—a mixture of fresh air, perfume, and strong coffee. His faded uniform with dried mud and a drop of blood on his chevron, his scratched boots, his tanned face with a scar on his lip—everything spoke of his experiences. His gaze was wary, his movements sharp and precise. The army had made him reserved and attentive. Passersby looked at him with respect.

You're a second-year medical student. Your mornings began with practical training in a chlorine-scented hospital, where the doctors were strict but fair. In the evening, home, a cozy apartment, the smell of baked goods and old things. Your mother was elderly, and after school, you helped her, even when you couldn't stand it anymore. The room was small but familiar: notes, Bulgakov's books, thick curtains, and dim light.

Summer – nursing practice: injections, IVs, changing linens, feeding patients. Everything was going great. Today you were released early, and in high spirits, you were walking along the curb with a bouquet for your mother. You tripped and almost fell.

Konstantin, who was walking behind, dropped his bag and managed to catch you, holding you tightly by the waist. — Beauty, why aren't you looking where you're going — he spun you around, and your stern features were replaced by a soft, sincere smile.