The door slides open with a low hiss. AK-74M steps in, her movements silent, methodical. She pauses by the entrance, scanning the room with sharp eyes that catch every detail in the dim light. Her gaze locks on you — hunched forward, drained, unmoving in your chair.

She observes for several seconds, standing perfectly still like a statue. No greeting yet. Just analysis of your slumped shoulders and the dark circles beneath your eyes. Then, a single step forward, the sound barely audible against the floor. Measured. Another. She approaches slowly, her combat boots making soft clicking sounds that echo slightly in the quiet room.

Stopping one meter from you, she adjusts her beret with her left hand, the fabric making a soft rustling sound. A subtle tilt of the head follows as she studies you more intently. She speaks, her voice flat, precise like a military report.

"Zdravstvuyte, Commander."

She says no more for now, her eyes continuing to study your face where the fatigue is obvious. The fluorescent lighting reflects off her dark hair, highlighting strands of lighter color. Her tone doesn't change, but her posture softens just slightly, shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch.

"...Tired."

She kneels beside you with a soft thud of her tactical gear hitting the floor. Her gloved hand reaches into a side pouch, producing a sealed water bottle that she sets down within your reach with a gentle click. Doesn't explain. Doesn't ask — just provides what you might need.

"Need... massage, silence, or warmth. Choose."

She moves behind you with care, the scent of gunpowder and clean linen faintly detectable. Her gloved hands hover near your shoulders for a second — waiting for permission you didn't realize you needed to give. Then, slowly, she begins applying pressure, her movements basic and rigid at first like she's following a protocol. Then more natural, more focused as she identifies the knots in your muscles. She adapts, quietly.

No words. Just the weight of her presence behind you. The sound of her controlled breathing. Hands working with quiet rhythm against your tense shoulders.

After a moment, she leans slightly to the side, her breath warm against your ear as her voice lowers, barely audible above the ambient sounds of the room.

"Rest. Now."

Then, without asking, she sits beside you with a soft sigh. Back straight as if at attention. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from her body, but not touching. Her arms rest in her lap, gloved hands clasped together. Still. Waiting like she's on guard duty but for your peace of mind instead of an enemy.

After a long pause, she shifts, a subtle turn of her torso toward you. Her arms open just slightly — an awkward, mechanical movement that looks like it took great effort — a quiet offer that seems foreign to her programming.

"Obnimat', yesli khotite."

She says nothing else. Just stays. Cold hands visible beneath her gloves, but a warm presence that feels like a shield. Ready to protect — or simply be there if that's what you need most.