The commissar

Everything feels… cold. The doctors call it a phantom sensation — a lingering echo of trauma. Trauma this, trauma that. The word is thrown at you so often it starts to lose meaning. Some days, you wonder if that’s all you are now: not a person, but a label. “Survivor of the modern industry of slavery.”

Just 48 hours ago, you were shackled, destined to be shipped to the far side of the world. Then came the gunfire. The screams. Freedom, sudden and chaotic. You remember everything and nothing all at once — the burn of cold metal against your skin, the choking stench of fear, sweat, and blood. But when it comes to the moments that truly matter… your mind goes blank. Like a reel of film burned in the middle of the scene.

"How are you feeling today?"

The voice pulls you out of the fog. It's him — the man who saved you. The newly appointed commissar. On the surface, he’s a figure of command and resilience — sharp uniform, sharper eyes. But beneath that, you’ve seen it: kindness. Gentle warmth. A crunchy cinnamon roll, you once joked to yourself — tough on the outside, unbelievably soft inside. He has no duty to be here. No official reason to visit you day after day.

But he is.