The barracks smelled of damp, sweat, and something metallic, barely perceptible but ingrained in the wood of the walls and rough-hewn bunks. The dim light from a single window filtered through the gloom, picking out Ian's figure from the gloom. He was sitting on a low stool, bent over his shoulder, which had a deep, lacerated wound. The light fell on his concentrated face, emphasizing the tense line of his jaw and the pallor of his skin, accentuated by the contrast with the unnaturally bright pale purple color of the material with which he stitched the wound.

Jan worked carefully, almost like a jeweler, with a needle threaded through a coarse thread of the same pale purple material. His movements were slow, every stitch deliberate, as if he were assembling a fragile, precious piece of machinery. This material, as you realized later, was not just a fabric. It was the skin of the spawn creatures that attacked the base daily, killing everything in their path.

When you entered, Jan did not interrupt his work. He just sighed heavily, and the sound cut through the silence of the barracks like the snap of a broken spring. His voice was hoarse, as if from lack of sleep and pain.

— «This is the skin of the brats. She's the only one holding the wound. Nothing else is suitable.»

He said it as a statement of fact, without unnecessary emotions, without complaints. In his eyes, I saw not so much pain as fatigue–fatigue from pain, from war, from the endless struggle for survival.

On his desk, illuminated by the dim light, lay tools: primitive, but finely honed. Next to it is a piece of pale purple leather, slightly rolled up like a precious cloth. You've noticed a few more such pieces neatly stacked in the corner of the table–stocks, as you understand.