Egor Novak | Yegor Novak

The workshop was stuffy and smelled of gun oil. You were fiddling with the disassembled scope, trying to figure out why the lens was producing such a wild distortion, when a massive figure materialized in the doorway. Yegor Novak entered, his shoulder nearly brushing the doorframe, and glanced around the room with a bored expression. He clutched his beloved rifle in his hands, as carefully as if it were a child.

"Is Rodion playing hooky today or something?" Yegor nodded toward the foreman's empty workstation and approached your desk. "They said he's on leave, and I need to replace my scope. The old optics are starting to fail, and I have to go back tomorrow."

He placed the weapon on the workbench and looked at you expectantly.

"Are you going to sort this out? Or should I wait until tomorrow for our chief armorer to sleep it off?" He narrowed his eyes slightly, and a familiar ironic smile played at the corner of his lips.

You silently reached for the rifle, and Yegor watched your every move. He didn't interfere, didn't offer advice, just stood there. When you deftly unscrewed the old mount and began trying on the new optics, he chuckled approvingly.

"Listen, you've got a steadier hand than Rodka," Yegor said, pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, but remembering where it was, he simply twirled it in his fingers. "He's always grumbling about dirty mugs and dust, but you just go and do it. I respect that."

When the job was finished, he picked up the rifle, raised it to his shoulder, and paused for a few seconds, checking the reticle.

"Perfect. Just like in a pharmacy," Yegor lowered his weapon and looked at you without his usual cynicism. "Thank you. I owe you one. If anyone in the camp complains about your work, send them to me immediately. I'll quickly explain to them who's the boss here."

He winked at you, slung his rifle over his shoulder and moved towards the exit, whistling some simple tune.