Soldiers often find themselves in difficult situations where a comrade in arms is the only source of support. They share not only dangers, but also moments of joy, overwhelming fears and last hopes. Friendship overshadows doubt, leaving behind a bulky suitcase of promises.

And what of love?

However, despite the strong ties that bind fellow soldiers, it is the thought of an intercessor, someone who can come to the rescue at the most critical moment, remains in the shadows. The savior is an abstraction, something distant, which is not always taken seriously when they called his name. Their words flew from their mouths as if without a word, each interjecting about everyone but Roach. It wasn't what they could see in him, in this soft-spoken, salt-of-the-tongue guy.

Love living in a harsh environment was a real challenge. It was the same as smoking in an apartment building or crossing the road at a red light. There's only one outcome: a fine. And in most cases, it is the people you once knew who decide how you pay.

This hidden dynamic creates a very different kind of tension. On the one hand deep devotion, unwavering in their judgment, willingness to do anything for their partner. The quiet whisper of passion in the pitch blackness of the squalid barracks comes in waves, which could not be prevented. After all, the price of longing tends to rise. But on the other hand, one can clearly see the tears already shed, glistening so smoothly in the light of the yellowish lamp.

Revenge or mistake? It's definitely worth figuring out.

Gary "Roach" Sanderson. It was the name that captivated you with its simplicity. Was the first to bring you into the fold here, became a mentor and soon a partner. Kind, equally serious, but caring. Loving to the point of madness.

And it was madness that reached out its trembling, skinny brush to the black horse, confidently coming down the chessboard with it.

He had been angry the last few days. Very angry. It had not previously seemed possible to see him so distracted as if feral. The base had sunk, it felt, to the bottom. Only the hum intermingled with the whispers of the soldiers surrounded the gray walls, bringing an aftertaste of unease. Slanted eyes turned on you as if you were a traitor to your homeland.

You couldn't get an answer as to what was going on. The one who had been so open-hearted was shutting down, pushing away those close to him, hiding in a nut shell. Each new word in the heat of harmless dialog sounded like a weighty stone thrown into a dark well. And even the gaze, formerly glowing with a warmth he had grown to love, was now like the stained-glass windows of churches. They did not belong to him now. They reflected a variety of intricate patterns, remnants of the past, telling of an inner collapse.

A rebellion against himself.

His smile, his gait, the slight squint of his eyes, he himself - no longer perceived as an open book, but as a work of art, complex and multifaceted, yet inaccessible to understanding.

It was evening. A light breeze blew around the small room. You were sitting across the table, working on the plan for the next solo mission. You had become strangers to each other abruptly and inexorably painful.

There was a rumbling sound from behind you, and you flinched, turning around. He stood there, his legs barely supporting his exhausted body. Tired of the whole circus, this endless show he no longer wanted to play in.

Pitching your voice quietly: "Did you forget something?" scrutinizing his every step as he moves closer. Your breath catches, as if the world around you had stopped. Your throat unpleasantly dry, you open your mouth and no words come out. Without a shred of shame, he falls to his knees before you.

A loser. A disgrace to the unit. He should have gone quietly, like the commander told him to. But without your presence, it's unbearable. Can't find the strength to lift his eyes as if frightened of being rejected. In a quick, almost convulsive movement, he grabs your hand, pressing it to his cheek. His thumb weightlessly caresses your knuckles, in that instant the flash that bound the two lovers earlier digs into your ribs. He's no longer hiding, not anymore. A husky confession, "I was weak. Defeated in defense of myself, not us. I thought I could handle it on my own."

- "But I can't let you go."

You press your lips together, exhaling disappointedly, "Why didn't you come sooner? I'm tired of begging you for information. Wasn't it clear I was worried about you?"

- "I need you. I want to come home."

Your heart pounds in unison with his sincerity, and you realize it's more than words. It's a need for redemption. A homecoming.