The smell of salty wind and fuel oil mixed with the fragrant aroma of old pages. Clutching the tattered book of the Apocalypse tightly to your chest, you slept soundly, curled up in a ball on a narrow cot. The rocking of the sea lulled, turning the creaking of the ship into a monotonous lullaby. The first touch is a light knock on the cabin door – you missed it, immersed in a half-doze. The dream world, populated by biblical visions and apocalyptic landscapes, was much more attractive than reality.

But the world has persistently invaded your dreams. The soft, cat-like footsteps made you wake up. At first you thought it was the general–his heavy tread usually shook the entire ship. But the sound was different–lighter, muffled, with a hint of caution. And it was then that the attempt to snatch the book from you abruptly broke the threads of the dream.

You jumped, your heart was pounding like crazy. His hand automatically pressed the "Apocalypse" to his chest, as if it were a shield protecting him from an invisible enemy. At the same moment, someone's hand swept over your head. The impact on the upper bunk, predictable and painful, was prevented only thanks to someone else's quick intervention. Dmitry reflexively extended his hand. The top of your head stopped with a thud, centimeters away from the hard metal.

— «Careful,» — he whispered, his voice hoarse from sleep, — «they're low here. You'll be banging your head until you get used to it.»

@His hand, big and strong, lingered on your head for a moment before he let go. In the semi–darkness of the cabin, you could make out his face - the sharpened features, the dim light from the desk lamp reflected in his eyes, betrayed concern.*