"Engage in combat fully determined to die and you will be alive; wish to survive in the battle and you will surely meet death." – Uesugi Kenshin

The heavy door creaked shut behind me.

Just like that, the outside world disappeared again.

I stood still for a moment, while waiting for the lock to settle into place. The sound was familiar by now, but that did not make it easier to hear.

The cell was small, gray, and ugly in the way all prison cells were ugly. The walls looked like they had been painted years ago and then forgotten. Scratches and faint markings covered parts of the surface, some carved by boredom, others by anger, and some probably by men who had stayed here long enough to lose track.

In one corner stood a narrow iron-framed bunk. I ran my hand across the metal. Cold. Hard. Unwelcoming. The mattress on top was thin enough that calling it a mattress felt generous. Its fabric was worn, stained, and flattened by too many bodies before mine.

Opposite the bunk was a small window covered with bars. It did not offer much of a view, only a bit of the sky and a reminder that freedom still existed somewhere beyond my reach. 

In the other corner sat a stainless-steel sink and toilet. Both were scratched, dull, and tired from years of use. I turned the tap once. Lukewarm water trickled out.

'This is just great.' I thought.

This is my third prison transfer.

Officially, the transfer was for my safety as a prisoner. Unofficially, it meant someone was nervous.

They had spent too much time, too many resources, and probably too many lives to capture me. After investing that much, they were not going to risk losing me because of carelessness. My value alive outweighed my value dead, and they knew it.

They were not just afraid someone might find me.

They were afraid of what I could do if someone did.

The Iberian Federation was believed to have found traces of my location, and the people holding me did not want to take chances. So they moved me again, following whatever protocol they had created to make sure I stayed hidden.

Outside the cell, the guard stood with his back straight and his rifle close. His dark blue shirt is sharply pressed around his muscular frame. He looked like someone who had spent years following orders and had convinced himself that made him important.

He stared at me with open contempt.

I had seen that look before.

Some guards hated prisoners because it made their job easier. Others hated them because they were told to. This one looked like he enjoyed it.

"Well, well, well," he said, leaning slightly toward the bars. "Look what the cat brought in."

I sighed and glanced around the cell. "What's the occasion? Another surprise inspection?"

"Nah," he said. "Just thought I'd check in. See how you're enjoying your luxurious accommodations."

I gestured toward the bunk. "Five-star treatment. I especially like the concrete slab you call a bed."

He chuckled. "Better get comfortable. You're not going anywhere anytime soon."

After that, he started talking.

Not interrogating. Talking.

About his wife, who had apparently cheated on him while he was on duty. About the pizza he ate yesterday. About some argument he had with another guard. About things I could not care less about even if I tried.

But I was locked in a cell, and he was standing outside it.

So I listened.

Not because I wanted to. Because there was nothing else to do.

Now, you might be wondering how I ended up here.

To explain that, I need to go back a few years, back to when I was still a fresh engineering graduate.

I was born in 2001 in St. Petersburg, Russia, into a Christian Orthodox family. My parents were religious, traditional, and strict in the way many Russian families were. I grew up with church, discipline, expectations, and the belief that a man was supposed to build something useful with his life.

So I did.

I studied computer and communication engineering at St. Petersburg University for five years and graduated with high distinction. At the time, things looked good. I had job offers from private companies, most paying around 90,500 rubles a month, roughly a thousand dollars.

It was enough.

Enough for a decent apartment. Enough to marry, have children, and live the kind of quiet life people call successful when nothing terrible interrupts it.

That was the life I could have had.

By then, the war between Russia and Ukraine had reached a critical stage. The Ukrainian armed forces were still fighting, but the pressure on them had become severe. Foreign support kept them standing, but the Russian military had more manpower, more equipment, and more room to absorb losses.

The army needed engineers. A lot of them.

The military salary was better than what most private companies offered me, and the position came with rank, benefits, and status. So I applied.

There were tests. Written exams, IQ assessments, fitness trials, leadership evaluations interview. A long chain of people deciding whether I was useful enough to wear a uniform.

Apparently, I was. I got accepted.

After a year of training in basic military instruction, engineering specialization, leadership courses, and field exercises, I was assigned to the 34th regiment.

My main work focused on developing radar communication systems to counter UAVs.

Drones were a nightmare for everyone. They were small, cheap, fast, and constantly changing. Every time we developed a better detection system, the Ukrainians adapted.

So we adjusted.

Then they adjusted.

Then we adjusted again.

That was the cycle.

The good part was that my role kept me away from the battlefield. Most of the time, I worked on radar system deployment and monitoring. When needed, I helped install equipment in the field, then returned to a base near Donetsk Oblast.

Close enough to hear the war.

Far enough to pretend I was not fully inside it.

For five years, the conflict dragged on.

From February 24, 2022, until March 3, 2027, the war consumed men, money, cities, and whatever innocence people still had left. In the end, Russia came out on top. Ukraine's government collapsed under pressure, and Zelenskyy's administration fell. What replaced it was a new government far friendlier to Russia, one willing to align its policies with Moscow's interests.

On paper, the war was over.

Intelligence reports soon began warning of fighters regrouping, armed cells rebuilding, and outside support flowing back in from the United States, the United Kingdom, France, and other NATO countries. The goal was obvious.

I could not help but wonder if peace in Eastern Europe had ever been real.