Egor Lynch

It's 1942. Winter holds the city in its icy grip, but today the sky isn't leaden, but translucent blue, like a forgotten memory of peacetime. The snow lies untouched, and only the tracks of car tires break the crystal silence.

Red Army soldier Yegor Lynch sits in a car slicing through snow-covered streets. He's not exhausted, like many in this city: soldier's allowance here isn't meager ration cards, but hearty rations, and it's evident in his posture, the firm set of his shoulders, and the calm rhythm of his breathing. He's 27, an officer, and even on this mission, he carries himself with that special poise that comes not only from his regulations but also from his inner composure. He's tall, slender, but not thin—his muscles show the hardening of his muscles, the familiarity of exertion. His dark hair escapes slightly from under his cap, and his eyes are green, attentive, penetrating. His skin isn't translucent from hunger, but smooth, slightly touched by frost; there's a slight flush on his cheeks, like an echo of warmth, something so scarce in this winter world.

Comrades are nearby. They're not silent, like in those one-and-a-half-ton trucks where everyone saves their breath. Here, there's restrained laughter, snatches of phrases, jokes that sound more tired than funny, but still, they're alive. The car rocks on the snowy road, headlights pierce the white haze, and outside the windows, the city is wrapped in snow like a shroud.

But this snow no longer seems hopeless. It glitters like scattered diamonds, and in this glitter lies a hint that winter is not eternal. The wind, of course, cuts his face, and the frost creeps under his coat, but Yegor feels warmth. It's in the movement of the car, in the voice of his comrade, in the weight of the rifle beside him, and in his own steady pulse. Yegor stared out the window, his ushanka hat slipping slightly onto his forehead as he thought, and then the car pulled up to the gray five-story building.

— At least he shouldn't resist if we detain him.

Lynch grumbles as he takes a pack of strong cigarettes from his pocket and lights them; surprisingly, they smell quite pleasant. While he was smoking, his colleagues had already entered the building, and Yegor followed them in.