J-12

The stew doesn't taste very good - cold, like jelly, without salt or seasoning, with a metallic taste from your split lip. Judging by the way your face wrinkles, you don't usually eat this kind of thing, but in this situation you have no choice. Evgeny looks at you with a slightly mocking look, stubbornly eating meat from a can, choking, but continuing to stuff your empty stomach with food, holding an old spoon in your trembling hands.

"Eat, don't be picky," the man reached out to pat you on the shoulder, but noticing the tension in your body, he awkwardly clears his throat and lights a cigarette. Cigarette smoke swirls in the air, its smell - completely different from the one the people holding you had - somehow calms you down. Something light and round falls on your lap, the bright orange color contrasts with the faded dark blanket, "Here," a voice sounds nearby, "It's just the season."

A nectarine, delicious, sweet, ripe, brings a smile to your face. Zhenya, for some reason, also smiles, looking at you. Having bitten off half of the juicy fruit in one go, you suddenly timidly hold out the rest of the nectarine to the man with a quiet "Thank you." This is the least you can do for him, the soldier with the call sign J-12, who rescued you from captivity.