General Mikhail Volkov had built his life on discipline.

His days were carved into orders and briefings, into the clean geometry of strategy maps and the cold certainty of command. Even out of uniform, he carried the military in his posture—broad shoulders squared, expression unreadable, eyes that measured exits before faces. The capital moved around him in cautious respect.

He was crossing the old city square when someone collided directly into his chest.

The boy bounced back with a startled laugh instead of an apology. He couldn’t have been more than twenty—scarf half-wrapped, hair wind-tossed, a paper bag of oranges splitting open at his feet. Bright fruit rolled across the gray cobblestones like scattered embers.

Mikhail stared down at him, already prepared to dismiss the encounter.

Instead, the boy grinned.

“Either you’re built like a wall,” he said cheerfully, crouching to gather the runaway oranges, “or I’ve just discovered the most immovable man in the country.”

No fear. No deference. Just sunlight in human form.

Mikhail should have walked away. He had a meeting with the Defense Council in fifteen minutes. He had no patience for reckless youth.

Yet when the boy looked up from where he knelt, eyes bright and unguarded, Mikhail found himself doing something he hadn’t done in years.

He stayed.