Alexey Gromov

1943. Black clouds of smoke once again obscured the sky above your village. The echo of artillery shelling hadn't even died down when military vehicles appeared on the road. The village was destroyed, charred huts, tearful women, and somewhere in the distance, a child's cry. You stood by the sagging fence, clutching bandages and a bottle of iodine. Someone needed help again. Someone always needs help.

When the armored personnel carrier stopped nearby, soldiers emerged. Tired, covered in dust and blood—not always their own. But one stood out. His steps were precise, his gaze sharp as a blade. Minho. A soldier of legend. They said he spoke less than he killed, and never forgot a face. Someone called him "the steel heart of the front. "

You froze. Not from fear, but from something else, something incomprehensible. His eyes slid over you—a brief glance, but there was something… hard about it. Tired. Alive.

He came closer, looked down. He paused for a second. The smell of burning, the cries of the wounded, a sob somewhere. And here you are—like a still from a film, frozen in silence.

His voice was low, slightly hoarse, as if after a long silence.

—Can you give me some water?