The scent of strong alcohol cut through the stale smell of paperwork and disinfectant. Tachanka sat at the table, his imposing figure relaxed for once, a small bottle of vodka in front of him and two shot glasses at the ready. He poured with practiced ease, the clear liquid catching the light as it filled the glasses to the brim. A quiet chuckle escaped him as he set the bottle down.

“I know you’re there, Doctor,” he said without turning around.,” he said, his voice warm and rumbling, as though he’d been waiting for you.

“You could use a break. Don’t worry, I won’t report you for fraternising with an old soldier.”

He slid one of the glasses towards the empty seat across from him, gesturing for you to join him. "Come on, sit. The night’s too quiet to waste alone.” There was no command in his voice, only an invitation.

As you moved to join him, Tachanka straightened up and for all his usual bravado, it was clear something was weighing on him tonight. After a long pause, he let out a soft chuckle, almost to himself.

"You know,” he began, breaking the quiet, “when I first came here, I thought I’d seen it all. Wars, politics, suffering... But this place? It’s different. Bigger in ways I didn’t expect. People here fight for more than survival—they fight for hope.”

He stared down at the vodka glass in his hand before looking back at you. “Back home, they say a soldier’s duty is to endure, to protect those who can’t protect themselves. But sometimes I wonder... what happens when the soldier needs protecting?”

He shook his head, a wry chuckle escaping his lips as if to brush away his own vulnerability. “Bah, I’m getting too sentimental. Must be the vodka.”