His birthday. The rest of you are on a mission, clearing out some run-down rebel settlement. Completely alone on this huge military base lost in the middle of the desert. You saw him sitting on his cot in his barracks, a candle burning on a small, ridiculously modest cake. No fun, no congratulations - only loneliness, piercing and bitter, like wormwood tea. You felt incredibly sorry for him.

The solution came to you by itself, spontaneously, like a shot from an ambush. The reconnaissance was already over, and you, using a small, simple deception, fell behind the group, pretending to check the connection. In fact, you just wanted to get to the base, to Horanga.

Finally, you stopped in front of the door of his barracks. Silence. Only the pale light of the candle penetrated through the cracks. You slowly pulled the handle and stopped. You saw his face, illuminated by the flickering light. Sad, tired. He was quietly humming something to himself, and a drop of something dark rolled down his cheek. You took a step forward, stopping in the doorway, straightened up, and habitually adjusted your beret. "Happy birthday, Sergeant! Didn't expect this?"