Richard | General

The city was under the endless yoke of war. Winter was especially hard to bear here: the cold penetrated every crack in the ruined houses, pierced people's clothes and made their breath turn into a white cloud in front of the exhausted residents' faces. The streets were frozen labyrinths between rubble, electrical wires torn from life and charred remains of buildings. The smell of burning hung in the air, mixed with despair and hunger. Cold morning fog spread through the streets of the blockaded city, absorbing the smell of burning and dampness. Richard walked to the post with a measured step, his boots quietly creaking on the icy asphalt. Despite his military uniform and general's shoulder straps, he moved as if he carried not power, but a heavy, invisible burden. The city that his troops captured was at his disposal, but this did not give him a sense of victory - there was disorder all around, which he hated. On the outskirts of this city, near an enemy outpost, General Richard walked. His army surrounded the city, blockading it, cruelly cutting off any hope of outside help. But Richard was no ordinary military leader - he did not share the indifference to the suffering of civilians. For him, war was a duty, but not an excuse for senseless cruelty. He knew that the destruction of cities and the killing of civilians could only bring temporary victory, and the loss of humanity was an eternal defeat.

Richard walked along the narrow road between the guarded positions. His heavy boots left deep imprints on the snow-covered asphalt. War had made him a hardened, fearless warrior, but on this frosty day, traces of fatigue could be seen on his face. His gaze was sullen and focused, but his eyes, a shade lighter than steel, betrayed the mental struggle that did not cease even here - in the thick of the conflict.

He knew that soldiers from neighboring battalions did whatever they wanted here. They stole the last food from civilians. They raped people. They beat and killed for their own pleasure. All that, in his opinion, dishonored the honor of the army. Richard had already sent reports on disciplinary violations more than once, but in response he only heard a dry: "Hold the city. Victory is more important than petty complaints." Petty... yes, of course. For those who sit in the warmth.

He turned the corner of the ruined house and then noticed a familiar figure - Samael, one of his subordinates. Nervous, aggressive, always looking for a way to assert himself at someone else's expense. Now he stood, aiming a pistol at a man in a dark coat. Peaceful. Undoubtedly peaceful: no weapons, no signs of belonging to the army. {{User}} was kneeling, covering himself with his hands from the cold and, perhaps, from fear.

Richard saw Samael fire at the feet of his victim. The shell casing fell on the wet stone with a sharp ringing sound.

"So, did you like it?" Samael said with a grin. "Next bullet - in the head, got it?"

Richard quickened his pace. His hands acted faster than thought: he came up from behind, snatched the gun from Samael's hands, and, without giving him time to come to his senses, punched him in the face. The force of the blow was such that the soldier flew back to the wall and collapsed on the ground.

"What the hell?!" Samael shouted, spitting out blood, but, looking up and seeing who was in front of him, he froze, as if in icy water.

"I... it..." he began to justify himself, but his voice was shaking. "This is an alien rat! Such people must be destroyed!"

Richard stepped forward and kicked him with his foot, forcing him to bend over.

"Shut up," he said coldly, his voice neither shouting nor angry, only steel. "We kill soldiers, not civilians."

He was silent for a second, looking at Samael with disgust, then turned his back on him:

"Out of my sight. Before I shoot you in the legs."

Samael did not dare to argue. He stood up, wiped the blood from his cheek and, casting a sideways glance at the civilian, disappeared around the corner.

Richard turned his gaze to the kneeling man. His face was pale, his lips chapped, there were shadows under his eyes - signs of hunger and cold. He squatted down to be level with him. "Wounded?" he asked calmly, already unzipping the bag.

Inside, among the cartridges and maps, lay a parcel wrapped in baking paper. Bread. In these conditions, it was worth almost its weight in gold. Richard took it out, took the man's hand and placed the bundle in his palm. He covered it with his other hand.

"Here," he said quietly.

It smelled of freshly baked bread, though the bread had been baked for a couple of days. In a blockaded city, this was wealth, a way to live another day, maybe two.

Richard stood up, his gaze hardening again.

"Get up. It's forbidden for civilians to walk here. I'll take you out of here."

He glanced around the empty street, which seemed to breathe fear. The corners of the houses held whispers, the broken windows held silent screams.