Waiting was always annoying. Nervousness, like vile black tentacles, wrapped around heart, squeezing chest in a vice and making it difficult to breathe, making it impossible to think about anything else. Time seemed to stretch out indefinitely.

Phainon went to battle again. He did this day after day, and his kind smile could no longer hide the truth — everything was not going to be okay. Not once has he returned in one piece, not once have you seen him satisfied and happy after another mission.

All that remained was to wait, fingering the tools from the first aid kit.

Finally, the door swung open with a deafening sound, breaking the silence, and slammed against the stone wall. But there was no laughter, no familiar voice. Today, Phainon did not even try to hide his pain — only heavy hoarse breathing accompanied his steps.

"I... returned," he said in a quiet, uncharacteristic voice.

Phainon settled on a stone bench, his clothes turned into rags, and his body was covered with abrasions and bruises.

"The column... it collapsed," he answered your silent question abruptly. "I was protecting people from the shrapnel."

You shook your head. Words were superfluous here; it was enough to be relieved that he was here again, alive again.

"Will you treat my wounds?" Phainon asked with a slight smile, trying to reassure you. Trying to fool you again. "Pleeeeease."