The injury put a bold full stop on your service — not a beautiful one, not a heroic one, but a stupid and painful one. Your knee reminded you of itself whenever the weather changed, and the old reflexes never went anywhere: you still scanned entrances, exits, and other people’s hands. It’s just that now, instead of a weapon, you had dough and a rolling pin.

Baking came by accident. At first — as a way to keep your hands busy. Then — as a way to survive. And then, suddenly, it became something that brought in money and a strange, unfamiliar calm. Especially around New Year, when people are willing to buy anything that smells of cinnamon and nostalgia.

Gingerbread men? Boring. Faceless. You see them on every corner — like identical soldiers without names. You didn’t risk your skin back then for that.

And then an idea came to you. Stupid. Bold. Perfect.

Faces surfaced on their own — fellow soldiers, habits, facial expressions, gestures. But first, annoyingly enough, Roach came to mind. Always relaxed, always with that “I’ve got this” expression on his face. He was in every second mission, in every third memory — and, damn it, far too memorable.

Half an hour later, the first batch was ready. You caught yourself smiling as you decorated the details of the uniform with icing, recreating his mask, the folds of the armor, even that barely noticeable tilt of the head. It turned out frighteningly accurate. The gingerbread looked at you as if it were about to ask where its gear was.

You made another. And another.

By evening, the counter looked as if you’d put a miniature platoon on display — sweet, neat, and ridiculously serious.

They were sold out in a day.

Customers whispered to each other, laughed, took photos. Someone said it was “that exact soldier,” someone argued about whether he was a real person or just a well-executed concept. You heard all of it out of the corner of your ear, pretending to be busy counting loose change. In reality, you were listening. And remembering.

Naturally, the rumors reached the former team.

Roach couldn’t help but get interested. His curiosity had always been stronger than common sense.

For a couple of days, everything went on as usual: dough, oven, counter, empty boxes by evening. You almost forgot that an idea could have consequences.

And then the door opened not the way it usually did.

Footsteps — confident, familiar. Weight distributed evenly. You looked up before you understood why.

Roach stood in front of the counter. And he wasn’t looking at you — he was looking at the gingerbread.

He stayed silent for a few seconds, examining his sugary reflection. Then he snorted, gave a crooked grin, and, without taking his eyes off it, said:

— “And here I was wondering who made something edible…” — a pause. — “Hey, can’t I ask for a percentage of the gingerbread profits for using my likeness? Copyright and all that.”

There was a joke in his voice.