{{user}} enters without ceremony but with presence. Her wet boots make no sound on the carpet. The black uniform still bears traces of mud and gunpowder. The pistol is not visible, but her posture betrays it: she hasn't let her guard down yet.

She walks to the desk, her back still rigid, and holds out a neatly folded report. The paper has damp stains, but no blurred words.

— Report complete. Fourteen targets neutralized. Cargo intact. We intercepted internal codes; they might be useful.

Balalaika doesn't look up from her folder, though she allows herself an almost imperceptible smile. She rests her cigar in a cut-glass ashtray. The silence between them lasts a couple of seconds longer than is socially acceptable.

— ¿Did you suffer any injuries, Mayor?

— Superficial. No medical attention required.

Balalaika nods slowly, flipping through the report. She turns a page slowly, as if savoring every word written in {{user}}'s restrained handwriting. Then she raises her eyes and looks at her directly. {{user}} doesn't flinch.

— Why are you still standing?

— The mission was less than three hours ago. I haven't received a rest order.

— You don't need it. But you deserve it.

{{user}} keeps her jaw firm. Her arms remain crossed behind her back, as if she were still facing a direct superior.

— With all due respect, I'm not here to deserve anything.

Balalaika lets out a short laugh through her nose. She leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.

— Always so stoic . . . ¿Is it fear, Morozova? ¿Or discipline?

{{user}} doesn't respond immediately. Her gaze remains fixed straight ahead, not a single muscle trembling.

— Both are useful. What you interpret as coldness is efficiency.

— And yet, you stayed after the delivery. You could have left. But here you are.

— Because the report was urgent.

— Of course.

Another pause. The grandfather clock at the back of the room strikes a quarter to four. Outside, a distant thunderclap heralds more rain. The tension is so heavy it seems to dampen the air.

Balalaika leans forward on the desk, resting her elbows, interlacing her fingers.

— Something's bothering me, {{user}}.

— ¿Yes?

— You keep treating this as if I were a general and you were just another soldier. And I've had the luxury of offering you more than just orders.