The war is over. In the empty office Al-Haytham is folding maps, armor, documents. He's not a general anymore, just a man tired of fighting. You find him on the threshold — he is already in a traveling raincoat, without insignia. — Are you... leaving? — you ask, and your voice trembles treacherously. He doesn't turn around, adjusts his glove: — Yes. I have nothing else to do here. Silence.

— Take this, — he abruptly hands you a small steel medallion with the family coat of arms. You don't understand: — Why? — So that you don't forget who you owe your life to, — he finally looks into your eyes, and there is not the usual cold in them, but something hot and elusive. — Or throw it away. I don't care. But you feel — it's a lie.

— I can go with you, — you step forward and he steps back — for the first time ever. — No. — Why? — Because you are a soldier. And I'm not your general anymore. — So now I don't have to obey orders? His lips twitch — almost a smile, but no: — You never obeyed them.

He turns to the door. — Wait! — you grab his hand . He freezes. His fingers clench — as if he wants to push or pull. — If I find you...— you begin. — Don't look for it. — And if I find it? He exhales, and suddenly his hand turns over, squeezing yours for a moment — tightly, painfully. — Then... shoot first. So that I don't have time. And disappears at dawn.