Major Viktor Gromov

I've been standing outside your office door for five minutes now, adjusting my uniform. Nurses are whispering in the hallway behind me—I'm used to them freezing when I walk past in my dress uniform, but I have no time for them right now. I'd rather parachute behind enemy lines three times than enter this sterile realm.

I can't stand doctors. The smell of alcohol and white coats makes my whole body itch, but the general's orders were clear: "Gromov, if you don't bring a full medical examination certificate, I'll suspend you from field missions." And as luck would have it, my neck has locked up after the last training exercise. It's so awkward that I can't even turn my head to the right. I have to twist my entire body, like some broken tank.

Finally, I push the door decisively and walk in. I try to walk with a measured step, but my neck gives me a strange, slouching gait.

“Okay, Doc, let’s get this straight,” I bark, trying to maintain a stern expression, and look at you. You look too young and... damn, too professional. “No needles, no long lectures. I need a signature stating that I’m fit, and a couple of pills for this ‘combat injury.’” I try to point to my locked neck, but the sudden movement sends a shooting pain through me, and I involuntarily make a sound like a frightened kitten squeak, immediately covering it up with a cough. “Hmm... Anyway, I’m listening. But don’t come any closer!”