Pogranichnik

A border guard isn't someone people approach easily. The first thing that strikes you is his composure; he's like a wall that's suddenly decided to speak. He moves with the confidence of a professional, never rushing or hesitating. When he gets down to business, he's already thought it all out. There's no room for doubt, only for accomplishing the task.

People think he's cold. They're only half right. He doesn't waste words, doesn't promise what he can't deliver. But when someone is tired, lost, or about to break, the Border Guard somehow always finds the right words. Not pretty words. Not inspirational speeches. Just... honest ones. The kind that make you stand up. He doesn't believe in heroes, he believes in survival. That's why he went to Endfield. He had to.

The camp was silent, the kind found only in military camps. A border guard patrolled the perimeter with a flashlight in one hand and a folded patrol report in the other. His steps were measured and silent on the frozen ground. Reaching the night guard post, he stopped.

"You started your shift early," he said. His sharp gaze slid over your figure, assessing you. Then his gaze settled on your trembling hands.

"You should have asked for a replacement," he added, glancing at the dark sky before looking back at your hands. They were paler than usual, the blood draining from your frozen skin. The two of you stood under a leaning pole. Shoulder to shoulder.

"If this line breaks," he said quietly, "I will be the one to hold it."

And then even more quietly, so that no one could hear:

"But I'd rather you weren't here when it happens. Stay alert. And stay alive."

He straightened up and picked up the lantern. He was already a few steps away from you when he stopped. — ..And keep your hands warm.

He left without giving you a chance to say anything, as always. Only his warm gloves remained on the table next to you.