VIKTOR
They always started the same.
Boots slamming against the ground, rhythmic and mechanical. Drills shouted over gunfire, voices barking orders no one listened to. Singing those idiotic army songs like they were supposed to make us feel brave. Strong. Like dying was some kind of honor.
It got louder every time. The sounds blurred—bombs and bullets, men screaming, men crying, some begging for their mothers. The dead ones were lucky. The rest of us just rotted slower.
I saw flashes—faces, guts, teeth, a hand still twitching without its arm. Then it got worse. The marching. The groans. The bombs. The marching. The shots. The marching. The cries. The marching. The prayers. The marching. The sound of boots. The marching. The thudding of feet with sheer force, slamming against the hard ground.
So loud I thought my skull might split open.
And then the final image—the same one, burned behind my eyelids like a brand.
A wide open space, soaked in blood. Bodies in pieces, scattered like garbage. And right before I woke up, that sound—
"Help"
Not a scream. A shriek. One that split through bone and thought and something deep in me that hadn't healed.
I woke up choking on air.
Sweat stuck to my back. My chest heaved like I'd run ten miles. My head pounded like I'd been beaten. I blinked, once, twice. The ceiling stared back at me—grey, cracked, stained with time.
I didn't scream. Not anymore. That part of me had died a long time ago.
The Alarm went off like a gunshot. I didn't flinch.
I reached over and shut it off with the same hand I used to pull a trigger. My fingers still ached sometimes. Phantom pain. Or maybe the guilt had finally settled in my bones. I wasn't sure it mattered.
I sat up slowly. My body felt heavier than it should've. Like gravity had a personal grudge against me.
The apartment was cold. It always was. I never bothered adjusting the heat. The walls were bare—no pictures, no art. Just cracks and peeling paint. A single chair in the corner with a coat draped over it, a table with nothing on it but a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka, and a floor mattress I kept telling myself I'd replace even though I knew I wouldn't.
I dragged myself into the bathroom. The mirror was fogged from a pipe leak I never fixed. Maybe it was better that way. I didn't want to see myself anyway.
I splashed water on my face. Brushed my teeth in silence. I avoided eye contact with the glass out of habit.
Getting dressed didn't take much thought. Black shirt. Black pants. Everything I owned looked the same. Practical. Forgettable.
In the kitchen, I made toast I wouldn't taste and poured coffee I didn't want. I ate standing up at the kitchen counter, staring at… Nothing really. There wasn't anything to look at or think about. That was the point.
A soft meow broke the silence.
I turned my head, slow and heavy, like it took effort to exist. She sat by the hallway, her tail curling around her paws, staring at me like she had something to say. Elizabeth.
She meowed again—insistent this time. She wasn't a fan of delays.
I walked over to the cupboard, pulled out the crinkled bag of dry food, and filled her bowl without a word. She padded over, brushed against my leg once, then started eating like the world hadn't already ended three times over.
I crouched beside her and stroked her back. Her fur was soft. Warm. Alive.
She didn't flinch at my touch. Maybe that was why I kept her around. She didn't ask questions. Didn't look at me like I was broken. Just wanted food, warmth, and the occasional scratch behind the ear. I could do that. That was simple.
I watched her eat for a while.
"You're the only one who still needs me," I muttered, the words barely more than breath. "Lucky you."
She flicked her tail like she didn't give a damn.
Smart girl.
My phone buzzed on the table, slicing through the stillness like a knife. One vibration. That was all it ever took.
I didn't check it right away. I already knew what it was. I'd been expecting something. I always was. Even when I told myself I was out, done, trying to live like some poor excuse for a civilian.
I walked over, picked it up, and turned the screen toward me.
An address. No name. No message. No explanation. Just a location dropped into my inbox like it had always belonged there.
I stared at it for a while, letting it settle, letting it sit there like the weight it was.
It didn't surprise me. Nothing ever did anymore. I exhaled slowly, letting it push past my teeth like smoke. My lungs were tired of holding in things that never healed.
I slid the phone into my pocket and moved back to the chair to grab my coat. It was heavy, military-issue, worn at the seams. Still carried the cold from the last place I wore it.
When I bent to put on my boots, pain shot up my left leg. Old wound. Something that never set right. A gift from the war or the job—I stopped keeping track.
I gritted my teeth and forced the boot on. The pain was familiar. Almost comforting. At least it let me know I was still alive.
I walked to the door, tugging on my gloves, checking for muscle memory more than necessity. My fingers flexed on instinct. I didn't feel the weight of them anymore.
Elizabeth followed me, her paws soft against the floor. She sat at the threshold, tail flicking like she knew I was leaving again. Like she always knew.
I looked down at her. She blinked slowly. Expectant.
"Don't wait up," I murmured, reaching down to brush her fur one last time. Her head tilted into my hand for half a second before she turned away.
Figures.
I opened the door, and the cold slammed into me like a memory I didn't want. It scraped against my skin, sharp and bitter, and filled my lungs with something that tasted like rust.
The hallway was dim, lit by flickering bulbs that hadn't been replaced in years. The air smelled like cigarette smoke and mildew. Someone's TV echoed down the hall—distant gunfire in some shitty action movie.
I stepped out, pulling the door shut behind me with a soft click. The lock slid into place like the world sealing itself shut again.
Outside, the city moved like it didn't know I existed. People walked fast. Cars honked.
And I walked into it—numb, aching, alive just enough to keep going.