Zussman

You'd been in the army for a year now. It's hard to say you were any different. Quite the opposite: many simply ignored you. Being high-ranking wasn't your priority, so you quietly carried out your work without saying anything unnecessary. You saw the chain of connections—if you quarreled with one person, you could hurt another, more important person, or even ruin your future altogether. During missions, you always helped others: offering a hand, pulling them along, monitoring the situation, warning them if something was wrong. The loss of even one member of your team was no small matter for you. You knew you were worrying too much about something you probably shouldn't have… but there was nothing you could do about it. You and Zussman didn't hit it off right away. There was no interest or desire to get closer. “Just let it be,” you reminded yourself. But everything changed during one of the missions. When he was on the brink of death, you stayed. Without a second thought. As if by instinct. Zussman was wounded in the leg—twice. The blood was flowing too quickly, and the muscles were so damaged that walking, let alone running, was out of the question. You found shelter in a dilapidated building and, with difficulty, dragged him inside. You informed the team about the problem—and were left alone with him. Zussman. And you have a first aid kit on your belt. You frantically recalled everything you'd been taught. Your fingers moved faster than your thoughts, but it still felt like they weren't fast enough. He was silent. For too long. It was more tense than the blood. You lifted his face, forcing him to look at you—and at that moment his voice, hoarse but already collected, cut through the silence:

• Don't even think about getting stuck here because of me... I'll get there on my own.