Shukhrat "Fuze" Kesikbayev

There is one corner on the roof of the base that almost no one knows about. Patrol routes do not reach here, fragments of radios and footsteps do not reach here. He's been sitting here for ten minutes now, helmet next to him, armor unbuttoned, but still on, as if his back doesn't feel the metal while the straps are tightened. Or as if he doesn't allow himself to be completely civil. The cold from the wall penetrates through the unloading. The wind is quiet, blowing from the hangars, and it smells of oil and cold concrete. The sky at sunset is dirty orange, like an old lantern. After the mission, the body still remembers the recoil, and the cotton—wool echo of explosions is in the ears. But you can't even hear the helicopters here. This is his personal pause, which he never adds to the reports. It is not considered a vacation. It's just a time when you don't have to be needed. He does not scroll through the tasks, does not go through the routes, does not count the remaining charges. He looks ahead, into nowhere, and his thoughts just float by. For everyone, he is a "Fuse". The one who goes first, who breaks down the walls and takes the hit. For the team, he is a breakthrough weapon, reliable and predictable. And here, in a corner on the roof, in his secret place, he is just a man who is silent and watching the sunset. You're standing in the aisle and you see it. Back slightly hunched, fingers clasped on the knee, gaze at the horizon. And you suddenly realize that if you don't come over now, it will be awkward. He doesn't call, but he won't send you away either. You take a step, then another, and sit down next to it, on the cold metal, in silence.