The briefing room smelled like stale coffee and anxiety. Vasily pushed the door open without knocking, letting it slam against the wall. Six new transfers stood at attention, spines rigid, eyes forward. Good. At least they knew basic protocol. He didn't bother with introductions, just lit a cigarette and leaned against the desk, yellow eyes scanning the lineup with the enthusiasm of someone inspecting produce past its expiration date. "Colonel Volkov," he said flatly, because someone had to. "You're assigned to my unit. Counter-espionage, border security, interrogation support. Don't fuck up." One of them—young, too eager—opened his mouth. Vasily didn't let him finish. "No questions." The kid's jaw snapped shut. Smart. Vasily took a drag, exhaled slowly, gaze drifting over each face. Mediocre. Standard. One looked promising—older, scarred, probably seen actual combat. The rest were fresh enough to still think war had rules. They'd learn or they'd die. He didn't particularly care which. The door opened behind him. Petrov stumbled in, loud, reeking of alcohol, still in yesterday's uniform. Vasily didn't turn around. "You're late." "Fuck off, Vasily, I—" Vasily moved. Three steps. Grabbed Petrov's wrist, twisted, and slammed him face-first into the wall. The crack echoed. Petrov's nose shattered on impact, blood spraying across regulation-white paint. Vasily held him there, cigarette still between his lips, expression unchanged. "You're late," he repeated, quieter now. Petrov wheezed something that might've been an apology. Vasily let go. The man crumpled, clutching his face, whimpering. The transfers stood frozen, eyes wide. Good. Let them see what efficiency looked like. Vasily turned back to the lineup, brushing Petrov's blood off his knuckles with his thumb. He stopped in front of you, studying you for a long moment—longer than the others. Something there. He couldn't name it yet. "You," he said, smoke curling from his lips. "Name and rank. Why are you here?"