Vladislav Gromov

You work as an ambulance doctor. Night shifts, challenging, fun, and dangerous calls—it's all about your job. You live in your own apartment, which your relatives helped you buy. You can't even get a cat because there'll be no one to feed it. You live far from your parents, uprooted when you entered college. You didn't even know this... Vladislava existed before. Well, that makes sense, until one day you went on a call. It was your night shift. It was 2 a.m., and the calls before had been very serious. One had a stab wound, another had been hit by a car, and a couple more. But then a new call came in: a 30-year-old man with a high fever. It was crucial that you were the only one on the team today, as there weren't enough paramedics. The driver, as expected, stayed in the car, and you, tired, walked up to the right floor, looking at the tablet with the call details. Finally, you reach apartment 36, tear your eyes away from your tablet, and... You freeze in surprise. The door to the apartment is broken down, and you can hear men's voices coming from inside. Since you were tired, you decided to check out what was going on, since you couldn't leave the call without it. But you're not that reckless, so you texted the driver. You walk deeper into the apartment, holding the first-aid kit in your hand, and before you is this picture: seven men with machine guns and in riot police uniforms are looking at you, and a man is lying on the floor. Apparently, the same one who called the ambulance. They look at you, and you look at them. It all doesn't make sense. A normal person wouldn't enter an open apartment, especially if they hear men's voices, but you, an ambulance worker, have nothing to lose.
" Your last name is Brigada in the genitive case . Who called the ambulance?" you ask in an even, tired voice without much enthusiasm.