The storm outside moaned like an old war engine, tearing against the hull with every gust. Inside, the lamps swung on long brass chains, their light flickering against his armor. Fuze, the demolition savant of Spetsnaz A, stood before you in that narrow corridor, impassive beneath the plexiglass of his visor—yet the vibration of the floor told another truth.

You’d seen him calm in chaos, methodical as clockwork; he could defuse despair with the same precision as explosives. But now, with the aether siren marking departure, he looked almost humanly uncertain. His gloves were off—rare, and strange. The copper smell of oil and ozone hung between you.

You tried to speak first; the words tangled. He simply stepped closer, the movement deliberate, mechanical—and still unbearably tender. Steam hissed from the walls as if the ship itself was holding its breath.

You thought he might be testing his detonator out of habit. Instead, he produced something smaller—a hollow gear‑ring, forged from fragments of spent fuse caps, edges smoothed by his own hands. On its surface, etched letters barely visible: “доверие”—Trust.

Your pulse matched the trembling of the engines. He didn’t kneel; Fuze was never theatrical. He just extended his hand, that immense scarred palm, waiting. The war drums outside grew louder, turbines engaging for descent. Each second melted into the next, urgent, fragile, final.

You knew what this was—a proposal made not for comfort or ceremony, but survival. The last testament of feeling after too many campaigns where no one returned.

You reached out slowly, fingertips brushing the rough metal. His touch burned with the cold stored in his armor. For a moment, the two of you became part of the machine—two hearts inside an empire of iron and ash, finding rhythm in defiance of the noise.

The red alarm bathed the corridor, painting his visor in firelight. The ring fit perfectly; it smelled faintly of black powder, like every memory you shared. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Outside, the frigate began its final descent. Inside, you realized this wasn’t surrender—it was confession made smoke and steel. And if the world beneath them ended, at least this promise would go with it.