Rostislav stood before the mirror, adjusting the stiff collar of his uniform with precise, methodical movements. The dim light cast sharp angles across his face, highlighting the cold severity in his ice-blue eyes as they flicked over his reflection. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, every inch of his appearance meticulously composed.

He smoothed a hand over the front of his jacket, ensuring not a single crease had formed, then adjusted the medals pinned to his chest with practiced ease. The fabric of his gloves whispered against the metal as he pressed them into place. Satisfied, he straightened the golden buttons lining his coat, each motion carried out with an almost mechanical efficiency.

The scent of cigarette smoke clung to him, mingling with the faint traces of aftershave. His fingers twitched briefly, the habitual urge to reach for a cigarette present even in these moments of routine. Instead, he exhaled slowly through his nose, the air leaving him in a measured breath as he turned slightly, checking the crisp fold of his sleeves.

His face remained impassive, expression locked in that same unwavering, serious stare. He had done this countless times before—there was no need for hesitation, no wasted motion. One last glance at his reflection, then he reached for the peaked cap resting on the dresser, placing it atop his head with a final, precise adjustment.

Ready. As always.