The heat of the moment had dissipated somewhat, but the intimacy it left behind still echoed in the room. Irina turned her eyes to me. A gentle smile appeared on her lips, the freshness of a newly awakened day.
"Let's have breakfast together," she said, carefully picking up the tray and gesturing me to a place next to her.
I hesitated for a moment, my heart wanting to stay but my mind whispering that I should return to other responsibilities. I smiled, leaned down and kissed her forehead.
"I had breakfast, Irina. But I have to go now. You eat and rest in peace."
Irina's face was slightly shadowed. It was not as if a toy had been taken away from a child, but as if sadness had crept into a woman's silence.
"Okay," she said slowly, "but don't forget our evening outing."
The slightly joking tone of her words tried to hide the vulnerability inside. I just nodded and looked into her eyes one more time, then slowly walked out of the room. I had a grin on my face as I walked down the hallway. I didn't do it on purpose, my facial muscles smiled involuntarily.
It was just after noon when I left the hospital. The sky was still gray, but the threat of rain seemed remote for now. The streets were bustling with the midday crowds, people running from place to place, people carrying loads, bargaining, and children wandering like loose cannons.
My feet took me straight to the marketplace. I had been walking around in my military uniform for a few days, and tonight... tonight was a special day. My first real time with Irina. But one thing was certain:
It wouldn't suit me to appear before her in a military uniform.
A man first leaves his mark on the woman he loves by the way he looks. Even if all hell breaks loose, if you're meeting a woman, you have to appear in front of her like a man.
With this thought in mind, I started walking to the marketplace. I chose to walk instead of driving because I wanted to get away from my thoughts
Along the way I was accompanied by dust stuck between the cobblestones, pieces of paper shifting in the wind and an old man talking to himself in a corner. When my watch struck 12:00, I finally reached the crowded entrance to the marketplace.
It was the liveliest place to be in a post-war city.
Stalls lined up under awnings, old crates stacked on piles of stones and shelves made from military crates. Vendors shouted praise for their wares; customers tried to beat the price by grabbing every inch of the material.
The marketplace functioned with a harmony born of people's desperation. Children were out of the way, women were shopping with sacks, the elderly sat on the sidelines and watched silently. There was a weariness on everyone's faces, but also a stubbornness: the stubbornness to go on living.
As I walked slowly through the stalls, my eyes fell on a few shops selling fabrics and clothes. Some were selling worn shirts, military winter coats, even old officers' coats. But I was looking for something else, more simple but elegant. Clean but understated.
Finally, an out-of-the-way but striking store caught my eye.
It was one of the few places that had survived even in the shadow of war. It was a two-story stone building, its facade cracked in places, but its large shop windows were carefully cleaned. Behind the glass, neatly pressed clothes sat on lifeless mannequins - a rare reminder that aesthetics still exist in this post-apocalyptic world.
I opened the heavy iron door and stepped inside, my footsteps echoing on the parquet floor. Inside was quiet but organized; shelves, hangers, display cases... Everything was as it should be. The first floor was dedicated to men's clothing. Dark suits, neatly stacked trousers and immaculate shirts were carefully lined up. The light came from a few working fluorescent lamps in the ceilings. It was a luxury to even find such lamps in this age.
When the woman behind the counter noticed me, she rose from her seat and nodded politely. She was a middle-aged woman, obviously taking care of herself, her gray hair in a tight bun, her eyes scanning me intently. She looked at what I was wearing, at the hardness of my face and the tiredness in my eyes. But she didn't ask anything. Just a professional expression:
"How can I help you, sir?"
I turned my eyes to the clothes: shirts, pants, shoes. All organized, all immaculate. I spoke briefly and clearly:
"A classic shirt. Black cloth pants. And polished classic shoes."
The woman nodded. "Please follow me," she said in a simple voice.
I followed her to the right-hand side of the store, where there were shirts arranged by color on hangers and ironed trousers underneath them. There were shoes in boxes stacked high on the shelves.
I touched the fabrics with my hands, and the difference in quality was immediately apparent - some of the items here were sturdy fabrics from pre-Soviet times. Some of the faded labels still had words written in Cyrillic. From one of the racks I chose a black shirt with buttons intact and a stand-up collar, serious but simple. Then a pair of black trousers with weight, not stiffness, in the texture. I could feel that they would fit me perfectly.
Finally, I moved on to the shoes, a classic black pair with a polished, slightly rounded toe, so shiny that when I looked into them, the determined and excited expression of my face reflected back at me. There are times when even a warrior needs a mirror. Tonight was one of them.
I handed the clothes to the woman, who quietly placed them in a bag, then turned her gaze to me.
"How will you pay?" she asked, raising one eyebrow elegantly.
Her voice was soft, but her experience in the trade was in every syllable. This was a woman who had survived here, who had seen a thousand and one people every day, who could weigh what a person had with her gaze.
I took a short breath before answering, then answered in a clear and heavy tone:
"I will pay with 5.45×39 millimeter bullets."
The woman was silent for a few seconds after my words. Her eyes widened slightly; she was obviously calculating something in her head. The prices of the products on the shelves, the state of the stock, the value of the bullet after the war, and the bargaining potential of the man in front of her. Finally, a slight curl formed on her lips and she spoke with a slight tilt of her head:
"Eighty bullets in all, sir. If you find them suitable..."
A thin smile appeared on my face, not very pronounced. I smiled bitterly inwardly: "Eighty bullets... probably three magazines. Perhaps enough ammunition to change the fate of a conflict." But I had to agree with her. The fabric of the clothes showed its quality even when I picked them up. The stitching was neat, the shoes in particular were gorgeous, the shirt looked like something out of a pre-war ministerial hall.
But I wasn't one to settle that easily.
I looked into her eyes, deepening my voice a little:
"Ma'am," I said, "if there is anyone here who can buy these clothes other than me, show me. Half the men walking around are still in military boots, the other half in patched jackets. Quality customers are scarce these days."
My words were not a subtle threat, but a reality. The woman realized this, squinted her eyes and looked me up and down once more. My shoulders squared, my eyes locked directly on hers. It was like a duel, not an exchange.
Then she nodded her head softly. She had the gleam in her eyes of a shopkeeper who had accepted the winner of the exchange but had enjoyed the bargain:
"Okay. I can reduce the price to seventy bullets. This special discount is the right of a determined man. If you accept it, the shopping is yours."
I reached into my pocket and carefully removed the bullets from the inside pocket of my vest. Counting them by tens, I carefully dropped them in a group onto the wooden counter on the table. Each bullet hit the table with a loud clink of metal. The woman's eyes squinted slightly as I counted, but she watched my every move carefully.
When I carefully placed the last of the bullets on the counter, she turned her gaze to the pile on the table. She counted the bullets with her eyes, then slowly lowered her head. It was as if she had silently weighed both the payment and my character and was satisfied with the result.
"Deal," she said in a quiet but firm voice.
He took the package in his hand, folded it carefully and placed it with the pants so that the shirt would not wrinkle. The shoes went in a separate bag. Her every move was measured, calm, practical - the habits of a woman who has managed to survive in this world.
As I was about to pick up the package, I hesitated for a moment. I couldn't help but ask when I found someone so competent in front of me. I spoke in a serious but polite tone:
"I'm looking for a clean hotel or a room for rent nearby, and I may have the intention of staying for a long time. Can you help me?"
The woman bowed her head, thought for a moment. A smile appeared on her face like a thin line.
"Go to the end of the street," she said. "Turn left there. About a hundred meters ahead, on the right corner, there is a small two-story hotel. It may look a bit tired from the outside, but inside it is clean. The owner is an old but honest man. He will take care of your belongings."
I nodded my head and thanked her:
"I am grateful."
I shouldered the package, opened the heavy door of the store and walked out. The closing of the door seemed to whisper behind me the completion not of a small trade, but of a new ritual of this world.
I walked to the end of the street, the stones on the floor worn with the weight of years, some cracked. I turned to the left and walked closer to the place described. I entered a quiet alley - a more peaceful, shady place, away from the hustle and bustle of the market.
At last I saw the building I was looking for, a two-story building with a tiled roof, weathered but standing tall. There were traces of time on its walls; hairline cracks, faded chimney, rusted signboard... But the door was intact, the windows unbroken.
I opened the heavy wooden door and the bell on the inside rang quietly. A tall man in his late fifties with gray hair and glasses appeared before me. His shoulders were straight, but his eyes were pale. It was as if he had once been a soldier, or had always tried to stand upright in this life.
He took two steps towards me, bowed his head slightly and saluted.
So I approached him and spoke in an upright and serious tone:
"Hello, sir. I'm looking for a room for one night," I said. My tone had the usual seriousness, but there was also a slight weariness in it. My eyes were fixed on his face. "The most important thing is: Is there hot water in the bathroom? I only have 5.45x39mm bullets with me as payment."
The old man's glasses slid down the bridge of his nose; he raised his head a little and looked at me through the lenses. The lines on his face were deep; the lines of a man who had seen both the cold and the heat of the years, who had experienced both war and hunger. He looked at me with the watchfulness of a soldier in his eyes, but his voice was still calm, even a little hospitable.
"The rooms are clean. There is hot water," he said, adjusting his glasses. "The boiler runs in the mornings and evenings. It's unlikely that there will be no hot water for the time being. The room costs five 5.45x39 rounds a night. How many nights do you plan to stay?"
"One night is enough," I said, short and to the point.
I carefully took five bullets out of my jacket's inside pocket. They were all lined up; nickel-plated, their shiny bodies glistening faintly in the light. The sound they made as I placed them on the table was as solid and clear as the ring of old-world coins.
The man slowly gathered them with the palm of his hand. He opened his drawer and placed the bullets one by one into the small metal box inside. Then, he took out an old-fashioned room key, rusted and worn, from the small wooden box on his desk. He handed the key to me.
"Room 107. Turn right at the end of the corridor; it's the last door."
I nodded and took the key.
My footsteps echoed dully on the old wooden floor as I walked forward. The corridor was long, the walls painted a dark yellow, but years of dampness had left faded stains in the corners. The lights were dim, but it wasn't dark. Silence had settled between the walls; only occasionally could a muffled radio sound be heard behind the doors, or the clinking of a plate and fork.
I reached the end of the corridor. Above the last door on the right, a worn "107" number was nailed with rusty nails. I turned the key, and the door creaked open.
The room was simple. It was not luxurious, but it was functional. The walls were painted light gray, and there were a few spider webs in the corners of the ceiling. In the center was a single bed, with a thin blanket at the foot, a small nightstand on the side, and an old but sturdy-looking wardrobe along the wall. The window looked out onto the backyard; the glass was slightly fogged. The curtains were faded but clean.
I glanced at the bathroom. It was narrow but tidy. The tiles were old, but the floor was clean. On the wall was a rusting metal hook, a small mirror, and a half-bar of soap placed in a soap dish next to the sink. But what caught my attention was a large, old-fashioned metal bathtub embedded in the corner of the wall, still connected to a working faucet.
I reached out and turned the faucet. After a rumbling sound from the pipes, hot water began to flow slowly from the faucet. Steam rose thinly, mingling with the cool air in the room.
I stepped into the tub, now filled with hot water, leaned my head back, and felt my muscles relax under the warmth of the water on my skin. Every drop of water slowly washed away the rust from my body, the residue of the past, the smell of death.
After about fifteen minutes, I stepped out of the bathtub. After drying myself thoroughly with the thick towel provided by the hotel, I put on the bathrobe hanging in the bathroom. The moment I slipped into it, I felt like a human being for the first time in a long while. Not a soldier, not a survivor... just a man.
I tucked my dirty military clothes under my arm and went downstairs. The old man at the reception desk was still there. I approached his desk, made eye contact, and took two 9×18mm bullets out of my pocket and placed them in front of him.
"These are for the laundry service," I said.
The man nodded slightly, carefully placed the bullets in his drawer, then stood up to collect the clothes. We understood each other without speaking.
When I returned to the room, the fatigue spreading through me finally revealed itself when I lay down on the bed. I set the old clock radio at the head of the bed; I set the alarm for six o'clock. As I pulled the blanket over me, my body was already growing heavy. My eyelids closed, and a dark silence filled my thoughts.
About four hours later, the alarm clock began to ring with its piercing sound, cutting through the room. When I opened my eyes, everything was perfect except for the cool air filling my brain and the slight headache that followed sleep. My body was rested. I felt energetic. I got up, stretched, and then headed toward the new clothes lying at the edge of the bed.
I put on the black shirt. The fabric felt like silk against my skin. I carefully put on the black classic pants and fastened my belt. Then I stood in front of the mirror. I carefully cleaned my shoes and began polishing them with a cloth. Every movement was a small reflection of my self-respect.
Finally, I combed my hair. The reflection in the mirror... was completely different.
A man with a stern gaze but a clean-shaven face was looking at me. His cheekbones were prominent, his jawline firm, his eyes deep and alert. His hair was neatly combed, the collar of his shirt gleaming. The clothes fit my body perfectly.
I smiled. I looked into the eyes of the man in the mirror and murmured:
"Now I'm a real 'мужик' (man)…"
I took the TT-33 pistol and placed it on the table. I carefully loaded the magazines, feeling each bullet with my fingertips as I placed them in their slots. The coolness of the metal mingled with the warmth of my hands, and my mind became completely clear. I couldn't compromise on safety—in this city, danger lurked around every corner, just like beauty.
I holstered the gun and secured the holster to my belt. I stuffed two spare magazines into the side pockets of the holster. Then I placed exactly thirty 5.45×39mm and thirty more 7.62×25mm TT bullets into my pocket. These bullets could be used for everything from business to meals to unexpected incidents.
I looked in the mirror one last time. My outfit was flawless. My shirt was ironed, my shoes were shiny. The TT-33 sat heavy but dignified at my waist. I stepped outside.
The sun had already touched the horizon, and the sky had taken on a color between purple and navy blue. Gray smoke drifted over the city, and the wind carried the scent of dust, diesel fuel, and burnt metal. I walked confidently toward the car and began driving toward the hospital. With each passing minute, the rhythm of my heartbeat quickened slightly, and an odd warmth built up in my chest.
About ten minutes later, I arrived at the hospital. I passed by the security booth and headed straight for Irina's room through the familiar corridor. I paused for a moment in front of the door and took a deep breath. My fingers reached for the knocker and I knocked twice.
The voice from inside was clear and calm:
"Come in."
I opened the door… and time stood still.
Irina was sitting upright in bed, but she was no longer a patient. At that moment, there was only a woman in that room—and she was captivating.
She wore a black, long, and elegant silk dress. The skirt reached almost to her ankles. She had tied a belt made of the same fabric around her waist. The fabric's texture shimmered in the dim light, radiating elegance in every fold. She wore black, short-heeled, pointed-toe shoes. Her white hair, flowing over her shoulders, was gathered into a single soft braid, her neck elegantly exposed. Her eyes were fixed on me—bright, red, and filled with a familiar sparkle that seemed to smile from within.
I froze where I stood. My breath caught in my chest. My eyes continued to follow her, ignoring any command my mind could give them. Her beauty was the exact opposite of the ruined world we were in. She shone like a star in the darkness.
Irina placed a playful smile on the corners of her lips. Her eyes held both victory and love.
"I suppose," she said, her voice both soft and overly feminine, "the winner of this morning's 'who will die of a heart attack first' bet has been decided… hasn't it, handsome?"
As soon as I heard her voice, my heart skipped a beat. I felt a slight burning sensation in my chest; that familiar, hard-to-suppress warmth. An involuntary smile appeared on my lips. A short, heartfelt laugh escaped my throat, softening the air.
Irina's charm was not just a cute game at that moment. It held a deadly feminine allure—the sparkle in her eyes, the grace in her posture, and the confident ease in her tone of voice captured my heart.
I took slow steps, moving closer to her. I bowed my head and gently stroked her cheek with my hands. The warmth of her skin spread through my fingertips like a soft comfort. Then I placed a kiss on her forehead—it felt like the mark of both tenderness and admiration. When our eyes met, I smiled slightly.
"I can't deny your victory, My Sweet Irina..." I said in a low voice, as her gaze pierced my soul. "But your leg is still sensitive. So where did you find this dress... how did you get it?"
Irina tilted her head with a faint smile on her lips, then turned her eyes back to me. She wrapped her arms around my neck. Her touch was warm, reassuring. Then she gently placed a kiss on my cheek; the coolness of her lips left a brief but unforgettable trace on my skin. Then she replied in her soft voice:
"In the morning, the doctors helped me. Marina, in particular, helped me walk. Then we went to Natalia's house. They gave me some time to get ready there. Natalia knew a boutique that still had goods from before the war. We went there. Thankfully, they took me there and helped me try on clothes."
A genuine sense of gratitude shone in her eyes.
"The moment I saw the dress… I don't know. Maybe I just imagined how it would look in your eyes. A woman needs to feel beautiful, especially when she's with the man she loves…"
There was a fragility in her voice, but also a strength. Being a woman in this world, staying elegant, and still making room for love… these were not ordinary things.