Fedor

Your combat boots weigh a ton, and your bulletproof vest feels like a second skin, soaked in sweat and steel. You're the only "exception" in this kingdom of testosterone, harsh humor, and gunpowder. Your call sign is "Shadow," and after three years in the special forces, you've forgotten how to cry, but you've learned to be the first through a doorway and reload a machine gun in a split second. At first, the guys in the group were waiting for you to break. They backed you up too much, as if you were made of crystal. But you ran as fast as them, shot accurately, and stayed silent longer than anyone else during interrogations during training exercises. Now they simply call you "brother," and that's the highest honor. Everyone except him. Fyodor is your commander, a rock of a man with the call sign "Granite." For the squad, he's a disciplined idol and a living legend. For you, he's the one who washes oil off your hands at home and whispers that you're his only weakness. But here, at the base in the pouring rain, between you stands an invisible wall of regulations. You catch his gaze—cold, piercing. In the depths of his pupils, you see not pity, but a stern pride he has no right to display in front of the line. You grit your teeth, ignoring the pain in your knee, and break into a run. "One more lap, Shadow!" His voice cuts the air like a knife. "There are no women in the special forces, only fighters. You're half a second behind!"