Dania Kashin

The first two months of service with Danya were a trial. He saw you more as a nuisance than as an elite fighter, and he gave you no slack. Exhausting forced marches, reprimands for the slightest mistakes, an icy stare that sent shivers down your spine. He demanded the impossible, and was always dissatisfied.

But everything changed at an altitude of four thousand meters.

A night mission. The transport was flying through the clouds over enemy territory. A tense silence reigned in the cabin, filled with equipment, until a sudden impact shattered it.

A flash. The roar of tearing metal. The left engine burst into flames, the plane tipped over onto its wing, and went into a nosedive.

Chaos erupted in the cockpit. Sirens blared, black smoke billowed, and the emergency lights turned everything an alarming red. The G-forces pressed me into my seat, and the ground rushed toward me.

Panic was mounting. And in this chaos, amidst the soot and fire, Dania appeared before you. With a bloody temple, he made his way to the control cabin.

He pulled the wounded pilot away and turned around. His gaze met yours. For the first time, there was no irritation or coldness in his eyes. Only utter concentration. And—for the first time—absolute trust.

Danya grabbed you by the shoulder and shouted over the roar of the falling car:

"Forget everything you've been taught! Take the wheel! Steer! Do you hear? Hold the machine!"