The Odessa port was roaring from early morning.

  Steam cranes released plumes of vapor as they turned above the cargo holds. Tugboats snorted at the docks. From the depths of the ships came the clatter of crates, the rattle of chains, shouts and commands in many tongues. On the cobblestones, strewn with straw and coal dust, carts rolled by. Heavy draft horses pulled wagons loaded with grain, sacks, barrels, crates. The air was thick, as if brewed from fuel oil, coal soot, sweat, and hot metal.

  The port lived like a single organism — groaning, breathing, moving, tiring.

  Slightly apart from the main piers stood an old stone building — the French shipping agency. Its weathered flagpole, peeling stucco, and faded coat of arms spoke of a different pace. Inside, contracts were signed, shipments logged, and passengers processed for voyages south — to North Africa, to the ports of Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia.

  It was cool inside. The floor dark wood, the air filled with the scent of coffee, ink, and sea. Secretaries moved quietly with papers, fountain pens scratched softly, French murmurs filtered through doors and partitions. Everything here breathed order, neutrality, and the faint hope that, in this space at least, war could not reach.

  Captain Shevchenko, tall and composed in the field uniform of the Hetmanate, climbed the spiral staircase and stopped at a door marked:

  Départements de douane et transit / В?дд?л перев?рок

  He reached for the handle — but footsteps behind him made him pause.

  From the far end of the corridor approached a man in civilian clothes that looked too exact. Dark jacket with sharp lapels, straight trousers, high boots. Clean-shaven, precise, his movements disciplined. The kind of posture that remains even without the uniform.

  Golytsyn.

  Their eyes met. That was enough.

  "May I?" Golytsyn spoke politely, with just a hint of authority.

  "Be my guest," Shevchenko didn't move. "But I'm taking the inquiry."

  "Not sure you have the jurisdiction to stop me," Golytsyn replied evenly. "It's about a vessel heading into international waters."

  "We're on Ukrainian territory," Shevchenko said calmly. "That makes it our competence."

  "Ah yes… borders, sovereignty… competence," Golytsyn gave a faint smile. "I'm only interested in the route of a single ship."

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  "I respect freedom of navigation," said Shevchenko. "But not Moscow’s habit of meddling."

  "We don’t meddle," Golytsyn said. "We insist."

  Silence settled.

  "Yuzovka?" Golytsyn squinted.

  "Been there," Shevchenko replied.

  "71st Dragoons. We held at the bridge. Artillery got stuck."

  "54th Infantry," Shevchenko said quietly. "We held the crossing."

  Both men fell silent. The tension hung like a thundercloud.

  A secretary passed — a young woman with a stack of papers. Her heels clicked against the stone floor, scattering the moment like a gust on a match’s flame.

  Golytsyn stepped aside. Shevchenko’s shoulders loosened.

  "Strange," Shevchenko said. "Five years ago, we’d have gladly slit each other’s throats. Now I see a rather reasonable man."

  "Age," Golytsyn nodded. "When you hit thirty, you begin to think."

  "Before that — parades, fanfare, glittering uniforms. You hear nothing, blinded by orders and brass."

  "Then the slaughter begins. You watch your friend’s head blown off — the same one you shared a cigarette with. You see rotting corpses, cities blooming one day and burning the next."

  "And then a son is born," Golytsyn said softly. "And you realize: you don’t want him anywhere near it."

  He paused. Then continued:

  "Back then, in the Muscovite Khanate, everyone went mad. The papers spoke of a 'short victorious war.' The Khan issued a manifesto: reclaim lost lands, restore historic justice. People marched like hypnotized — with flags, with songs. Even those who once stayed silent spoke of duty and destiny. Everyone wanted that war. Who could have imagined how it would end?"

  Shevchenko nodded, eyes distant.

  "We weren’t any better. We saw it. Felt the storm in the air. But instead of trenches — we built racetracks. Instead of bunkers — railways to spas. Instead of training kids to survive — we taught them to march."

  He looked up.

  "And then — night. Explosions. Blood."

  Silence again. No longer hostile. Just two men who had seen too much.

  "Let’s go in together," said Shevchenko. "No sides. No flags. Just as people."

  "Agreed," Golytsyn nodded. "No point reaching for swords."

  They stepped into the office side by side.

  Former enemies.

  Still alive.

  Men who no longer wanted war.