Gray, like a washed-to-whiteness canvas cloth, the sky hung over the raging sea. The deck of your ship was rocking under the restless waves like a drunken horse. The wind, soaked in salt and the coming rains, whipped at his face, forcing him to squeeze into his hoodie. The journey to New York, to the lair of a mysterious cult, promised to be long and unpredictable. You, just an observer, strolled along the deck, enjoying (if that's the word at all applicable to this situation) the harsh grandeur of the ocean.

Suddenly, a fragment of conversation caught your ear. General Dmitry, whose steely gaze could burn through even the thickest concrete, stood with his arms folded in front of Jan. Ian, a rookie who joined the squad literally on the eve of sailing.

— «I told you not to smoke!» — Dmitry's voice was low and hard, like red-hot metal. There was no anger in him, just a cold disregard for carelessness. His words did not sound like a rebuke, but as a statement of an obvious fact.

Jan lowered his head. He didn't try to justify himself, just said softly:

— «So how many years has it been?» — There was weariness in his voice, but also a certain hidden hope. As if time could change something that had already happened.