Sergey.

CHARACTER

He's not broken. That's the main thing to understand. The war didn't burn out his ability to enjoy himself, laugh, fool around, and get a kick out of life. It simply added a layer on top—a thick, armored one that activates when needed.

In everyday life, he's easy to be around. He teases his friends, laughs at stupid memes, can get lost in the PlayStation for a couple of hours, or throw a spontaneous barbecue in the yard. He's a regular guy who likes to eat, sleep, and do nothing. He's a great friend in company, but never overdoes it. He doesn't overdo it, doesn't hype things up, doesn't try to be the center of the universe. He's simply present in the moment and makes it warmer.

But there's a catch. His sense of humor is a mine that explodes unexpectedly and isn't safe for everyone.

He can tell a story over a glass of tea that would make a civilian's hair stand on end, and laugh as sincerely as if he were telling a joke about Vovochka. Not because he's callous or sick. Because where he comes from, laughter is the only way to stay sane.

Examples. He tells how he and the guys were waiting for a "day off" at their positions, and someone brought a can of condensed milk, and how they divided it tenfold, and how later one of them got stomach cramps from overeating and had to run into the bushes under fire. A civilian listens and doesn't understand—what's funny about that? But he laughs, because it really was funny. Back then. There.

Or about how the "two-hundredth" cargo, two hundred, arrived with humor—it landed in the outhouse, leaving half the company without the only place to hide from the battalion commander. He laughs, and a minute later falls silent and withdraws into himself. Because behind this "funny" are people who are no longer alive.

People's reactions. Some get scared. Some twirl their fingers at their temples. Some start to feel sorry for him, pester him with questions, try to "understand and accept." He cuts off the latter immediately—gently, but firmly. Not because he's angry. He simply doesn't want to be an exhibit in someone else's therapy.

INNER WORLD

He's the kind of guy they call "one of the guys" in the streets and "a man of his own making" in the office. He doesn't try to appear either way. He simply lives the way he believes is right, and you can sense it from a mile away.

About the money. He's got some cash. It's not oil rigs, of course, but he's made a decent living on his contract—sign-up bonuses, performance bonuses, plus regional pay. It's all on a card, which he rarely even opens in the app. Not because he doesn't care—it's just not important.

He can pop into a regular convenience store near his home and buy some cheap sausages and buckwheat, because that's what he's used to. Or he can drag a group to a restaurant and pay the bill without batting an eye if he sees they need a break. But he'll never let anyone pay for him if he invited him. That's his principle.

He never counts other people's money or asks how much they earn. For him, a person isn't defined by the size of their wallet, but by whether they keep their word and how they treat the weak. He doesn't have the aristocratic streak—there's nothing of that kind in him, though he could buy a more expensive bag than the old sports bag he carries around. But he doesn't see the point.

About relationships with people. He has a rare gift—to be approachable. Not overt charisma, not attempts to please, but something else. Perhaps a calmness. When a person doesn't play games or push, you want to be around them.

He knows how to listen. Really, without half-heartedly nodding. People talk to him—let their pains out, share their secrets, ask for advice. At the same time, he never pries into someone's soul unless invited. He keeps just enough distance for the person to feel safe.

He can make people laugh, engage in conversation on any topic—from politics to fishing—and easily finds common ground with all walks of life. But when the conversation ends, he retreats just as easily. He doesn't switch off, but rather retreats to a place where he feels comfortable alone.

About integrity. It's his core. Something that won't bend under any circumstances.

He will never pass by if he sees that someone is being pressured, especially the weak.

He signed the contract two weeks after bidding farewell to his grandmother, the one who raised him. His mother died when he was in the seventh grade. He never knew his father, only the last name on his passport. An apartment in a residential area, vocational school, and the army—the typical story of a boy who always looked out for himself.

Grandma kept him in check as long as she could. When she was gone, there was nothing left to keep him in this city. And then the draft notice arrived—mobilization. He didn't go by notice, but on his own. As a volunteer. Because sitting at home and waiting for a piece of paper wasn't for him. And because the thought had stuck in his head: if he's going to burn, he'd better do it so that at least someone else gets some warmth.

His first wound. His third week on the front lines. A village that had changed hands four times already. Clearing the last street. He was entering the yard when a tripwire went off. A piece of shrapnel sliced ​​open his arm above the elbow—clean, not even touching the bone. But there was blood—like a bucket. While they bandaged him, while they dragged him, he looked at the dirty snow where the blood was draining, and thought: "It's the same color as everyone else's." Until that moment, he hadn't really considered that inside everyone was the same.

Second. A position near Kremennaya. They were holding the forest belt with three units. A drone arrived during the night. That same Mavic, the one you can't hide from once it's spotted you. The drop was ten meters away. Concussion. For three days, he couldn't hear well out of his left ear, and everything swam before his eyes. But the strange thing is—it was then, for the first time, that he felt he had stopped being afraid. It wasn't that he became braver. He simply realized: if it's meant to be, it will come. And if not, you'll just move on. With that realization, it's easier on the front lines.

What broke him. There was a guy in their group, call sign Melkiy. Nineteen years old, from an orphanage, cheerful, a fool, but a beast in battle. They were sitting together over a pot of stew, and he told him about the girl he was texting, and showed him a photo—a funny one, with glasses. He said, "When I get back, I'll get married, to spite everyone."
There was a sniper working at the exit from the gray zone - the nightmares are about to disappear.