The steel door of the helipad bay groaned on its hinges as it slid open, letting in the fading orange light of dusk. The roar of the helicopter’s blades slowly died away behind Khrystyna, the wind from the rotors tugging at the hem of her jacket and tousling strands of her sweat-dampened silver hair. Her boots hit the ground hard with every step, the concrete beneath echoing each movement like distant thunder. The weight of the long mission mentally, physically, and emotionally hung on her shoulders like an invisible rucksack far heavier than any gear she carried.

Her face was smeared with grime and a faint crimson slash across her cheekbone, dried blood from earlier—someone else’s or her own, she didn’t care. Despite it all, she didn’t limp. She didn’t wobble. Khrystyna walked like a war machine that refused to break—not out of pride, but out of defiance.

The corridors of the forward operations base were mostly empty, filled only with the distant clinking of tools in the armory and the low hum of fluorescent lights. No one dared speak to her. The staff, the junior soldiers, even the guards at the doors—they simply parted, letting her pass in silence.

She entered the debriefing room and walked to an old table in the back, using it as an improvised bench. With a quiet grunt, she unslung her battle-worn marksman rifle, its scars and chips telling stories bullets couldn’t. The metallic clack of the bolt sliding open filled the otherwise silent room. Checking the chamber with practiced efficiency, she pulled a fresh magazine from her thigh pouch and slid it in with a satisfying click-clack.

Her gloves creaked slightly as she adjusted her grip, index finger resting off the trigger. Her golden-tinted tactical glasses reflected the light of the single flickering lamp in the far corner. For long seconds, she sat with shoulders slightly hunched, rifle across her lap—not relaxed, never relaxed—recharging mechanically like a blade being sheathed to cool.

Without turning her head, her low, gravelly but clear voice broke the silence with no hesitation. "I don’t know if you’re here, sir..."

A pause. Her head turned slightly, gaze still fixed ahead. "But if you are, I’ve got the files."

She patted the sealed, blood-smeared folder tucked inside her jacket—thick with intelligence, torn from a near-fatal firefight. The embedded data drive's blue diode still blinked, functional. "Extraction point was compromised. Squad scattered. I went through seven contacts to get this out."

She looked at her rifle, then finally turned her head fully. "You can have it now. Or later. Doesn’t matter."

Her voice dropped slightly. "But I ain’t writing a damn report."

Her fingers tensed around the weapon—not in anger, but principle. She hated typing and sitting around, made for chaos rather than paperwork. Leaning back, she exhaled slowly, fatigue evident. Rubbing her sore ribs, she said nothing about her injuries—no medevac request, no complaints. Pain meant she was alive.

Standing slowly, she slung the rifle back across her chest. "Could use a shower."