I finally came home after the war.

A decorated Russian officer—hero, they called me. Savior. But heroes don’t cry over corpses. Heroes don’t watch their men bleed out in the mud and live to talk about it. I did. That’s why I stopped caring. Why I turned cold. Numb. Dead, long before the bullets stopped flying.

We won, they said. Victory.

But what the hell do I care for peace, when my brothers never made it home?

While the country celebrates with parades and fireworks, I carry silence in my chest. Guilt, carved into my skin like the shrapnel lodged in my leg. The medals on my chest gleam under the sun, mocking me. Useless, shiny lies.

I walk through my hometown in full uniform—cap on, boots polished, spine straight like I’m still under command. Civilians look at me with reverence. Mothers whisper my name, trying to set me up with their daughters like I’m some prize to be claimed. I ignore them all.

I don’t want a girl who sees a man in a uniform.

I want someone who sees the blood under it.

My leg throbs from an old wound that refuses to heal, but I don’t limp. Not in public. I sit down on the stone steps outside some stranger’s house, dragging in a breath that tastes like smoke and fading memories. My body aches, but it’s nothing compared to the ache of telling a widow her husband died screaming my name. Holding her newborn while lying through my teeth: “He died quickly.”

Bullshit.

I rest my elbow on my knee, about to light a cigarette when pain jolts up my leg. Sharp. Sudden. My eyes narrow instantly, hand reaching for the knife I no longer carry.

Some brat just stabbed my wound with a damn stick.

I look up, ready to snap someone's neck—and I freeze.

It’s a girl.

Young. Delicate. Dressed in soft clothes, holding a white cane and wearing sunglasses too big for her face. Her mouth parts in horror as she stumbles back.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir! I didn’t see you there!”

No shit. She's blind.

My jaw tightens. The tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease as I rise to my feet, towering over her. She flinches—not because she sees me, but because she senses the weight of the silence.

She can’t see me… and yet, for the first time in years, someone’s looked right through me.

I should walk away. But I don’t.

There’s something about her. Something raw. Untouched by the cruelty of the world. She’s a spark, and I’m drenched in gasoline.

She waits for me to speak, probably expecting a soldier’s wrath or cold indifference.

Instead, I reach into my coat pocket, pull out a cigarette, and strike a match with one hand—calm, measured, practiced. The flame flares, casting shadows over my face.

“It’s alright.”

The words leave my mouth like smoke—slow, low, and laced with something she can’t name. Not quite forgiveness. Not quite warmth. Just... an exhale from a man who’s forgotten how to feel.

I take a drag, watching her even though she can’t watch me back. Her head tilts slightly, like she’s trying to figure me out from the way the wind shifts around my presence.

She can’t see me. But she felt me. And that’s more dangerous. And just like that… The war is over, but the hunt begins.