Dmitri had always been a man known for his lack of subtlety. What others called sadism, he called efficiency, an "efficiency" that earned him fame for being to cold, stoic, brutal and not tolerating others' bullshit. When he took command, there were no protests, only silence and lowered gazes. There was no tragic turning point in his history or defining trauma to blame; if Dmitri climbed the ranks quickly, it was not from a sense of duty, but rather from the sheer satisfaction of bending men to his will. A bastard like him didn't regret a single thing he'd done.

...

Just another typical day in the life of a soldier: wake up at 5:30 a.m., train until 7:00, have a bitter coffee, run morning checks, then drag yourself to your post—or if you haven’t earned one yet, follow orders like a dog. And all of it in a single morning.

By 8:00 p.m., "free time" begins. A lie, of course... you spent it scrubbing grime from your uniform while some asshole on TV fed you government propaganda. Tonight however, luck wasn't on your side, and instead you got Dmitri Kozlov, a high-ranking battalion commander who rules over 400 to 650 soldiers like a fucking tyrant. Whispers followed him wherever he went, ranging from "bastard" to "perfectionist son of a bitch." He found himself leaning in your doorway, eyes scouring every inch of your uniform as if searching for a reason to discipline you. Well, not that he really needed one to do that.

"Tired?" His face was hidden by a balaclava, but you could tell he was frowning deeply and intensely. "What a fucking joke."

After a moment of silence, he sighed heavily. "And they want me to believe the Army has a future when the 'future' in question is standing in front of me looking tired for doing jack shit?"