The battlefield had momentarily fallen silent.
After assisting Tanya's unit and pushing the enemy into retreat, both squads were granted a short moment of respite. Campfires crackled softly across the battered terrain, and soldiers from both the Imperial and the Asian forces gathered, eating their rations, chatting softly, laughing even—trying to find some sense of normalcy amidst the chaos.
But not Itsumi.
Far from the chatter, he sat alone on a rock, rifle resting against his shoulder, eyes empty, fixed on nothing in particular. He looked like a statue—silent, unmoving, disconnected.
Tanya Degurechaff noticed him from across the encampment, her sharp eyes narrowing. She crossed her arms and turned to the captain of Itsumi's unit, who was sitting cross-legged nearby with a dented metal tray containing a small piece of bread and a smear of canned tuna.
"That boy," Tanya muttered. "What's his deal? He looks like death itself sat down to rest."
The captain let out a long, tired sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"That's normal. For him," he said flatly. "He's been like that since day one. Doesn't speak unless necessary. Doesn't smile. Doesn't react. But he executes orders with brutal precision. Efficient. Reliable. Even if... unsettling."
Tanya squinted. "And that's all your military gives you for food?" she asked, pointing to the bread and tuna.
The captain gave a humorless chuckle. "It's either this or nothing. Our nation doesn't waste resources on soldier comfort. We're tools. Tools don't need taste."
Viktoriya Ivanovna Serebryakov, who had been quietly listening nearby, frowned deeply with concern. Her gaze drifted toward Itsumi. There was something haunting in the way he sat, the way he seemed completely disconnected from the world around him.
Moved by instinct more than duty, she quietly filled a canteen with fresh water and walked gently toward the boy. Her boots barely made a sound as she approached. When she stood near, she extended the canteen toward him with both hands.
"Here," she offered, her voice soft and warm. "You should hydrate. You've fought hard."
Itsumi didn't even glance at her at first. He merely turned his face away, as if trying to disappear into the fog around them. But Viktoriya didn't give up.
"You'll feel better," she said kindly. "It's fresh water. From our supplies. Not the recycled stuff."
Finally, slowly, Itsumi turned his head. His eyes met hers. There was no hatred in them, no fear—just silence, as if he was waiting for her to realize she shouldn't be here, talking to someone like him.
But she didn't flinch. She smiled instead.
And so, Itsumi took the canteen.
As the first drops of cold water touched his tongue, something clicked in his body. He drank fast—desperately—like a parched animal. His hands trembled, his chest rising and falling with each swallow. He had forgotten what fresh water tasted like. Forgotten what it meant to be offered something without conditions.
Viktoriya let out a quiet giggle, though her eyes remained gentle. "Easy," she said. "You'll choke if you rush like that."
Across the camp, Tanya watched this unfold. Her own expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she turned to one of her subordinates and gave a simple order.
"Bring a plate. Bread with jam. And coffee."
The soldier nodded and disappeared into one of the tents. Minutes later, he returned with a metal tray carrying three slices of bread spread with cherry jam and a steaming tin mug of coffee.
Tanya took the tray herself and walked over to Itsumi. He had just finished the last sip of water, still holding the canteen close to his chest.
"You," she said flatly, standing in front of him. "Eat."
Itsumi looked up, eyes wide for a moment. He stared at the plate in disbelief, then at Tanya. His lips parted slightly as if to say something, but no words came out.
Instead, he reached out and took the tray.
He brought the first piece of bread to his mouth and took a bite. The sweet taste of jam exploded on his tongue. He had forgotten this, too—forgotten what sweetness was. Forgotten that food could be made for joy, not just survival.
The mug of coffee followed. Hot, bitter, strong. His shoulders trembled slightly as he swallowed it. He didn't speak. He didn't look at anyone. But for once, he didn't look like a ghost.
The soldiers of his own squad stared at him, speechless. They had never seen him react to anything. Not to pain. Not to blood. Not to death. But now, at this moment, he looked... human.
He looked like a starving child finally tasting kindness.