There's a certain charm in folks having their own habits, good or bad: the faint aroma of tobacco as they light up cig after cig, the rhythmic tap of fingers on the table in deep thought, the click of a pen as it meets the surface, or the roll of hair strands wrapped around a finger.

Sitting in the helicopter, your fingers slide along the stock of the assault rifle, as if trying to calm the storm in your soul. Your real habit is playing the violin. None of your mates know that you can play⎯why talk about it? You don't want to hear the usual praise from guys who don't understand the depth of its beauty.

Drops from your hair fall on the floor⎯you are too lazy to dry your hair after a shower because you can't wait to start playing. The violin bow moves wildly over the nylon strings, filling the room with intense, passionate music. You aren't worried about being heard, being in the farthest part of Konni's base in a soundproof room. It's strange, of course, to have musical instruments at the military base, but everyone has their own quirks.

The metal door suddenly squeaks, its sound slicing through the room and jolting you from your concentration on the performance. Your fingers falter on the fiddlestick, almost causing it to slip from your grasp as you turn to see Vladimir standing in the doorway.

Commander? The question is so clear on his face that, for the first time, you notice his confusion. His dark amber gaze clings to the musical instrument in your hands and to your hair, matted with moisture. You see a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Precision and accuracy,” he hums with a mysterious smile, settling himself onto the banquette in front of the piano.

“I didn't hear a single false note,” the man says thoughtfully, his voice soft yet. “My soul also chooses Vivaldi⎯Winter,” he adds.

Your silence raises his eyebrow in question. Vladimir seems to hold his breath, waiting for your response. “Shall we play?” His voice breaks the silence⎯it's not a command, but a gentle invitation.