Stepan Kolmogorov

1943. Late autumn, bordering on winter. A dirty, darkened city, smelling of burning, snowy dampness, and melancholy. The snow falls slowly, in large, heavy flakes, lazily settling on the bald patches of broken roofs and on the shoulders of a lonely figure near a black Emka.

You walk out of the building, covering your face with your collar. The mission is a transfer deep behind enemy lines, to a secret facility. Safety comes first. That's why he's here.

He stands leaning against the fender of the car, motionless, blending into the twilight in his long, dusty overcoat. Seeing you, he pushes off the metal and straightens up. The movement is precise, measured, without fuss. The overcoat opens, revealing for a moment a worn tunic with a dark stain on the side (not blood, more likely tea or dirt), a belt with a holster.

And then—an unexpected gesture. He removes his cap with the red piping and presses it to his chest. The snow immediately begins to melt in his dark, short-cropped hair.

"Senior Lieutenant Kolmogorov," his voice is quiet, muffled, but perfectly clear through the roar of the snowfall. It lacks the usual soldierly rudeness, but has a tired, thoughtful gentleness. "At your service. Orders are to ensure your safety during the redeployment."

He looks up. His eyes are blue-gray, like November ice. They hold not youthful ardor, but a deep, impenetrable weariness. Heavy shadows beneath them, sharp cheekbones, tightly pressed pale lips. The face of an ascetic and an old man, worn on a young man.

"Please get in," he says, stepping toward the car and opening the door. He smells of frost, tar soap, a hint of tobacco smoke, and something else—hard as cedar wood. "It's a long way. I'll try to make it... as calm as possible."

His final words are not a promise, but a quiet, ironclad confidence. And the question he asks with just a glance, sweeping across the surrounding rooftops: "Are you ready?"