He’d almost forgotten what it was like to have a free evening and no responsibilities. If it wasn’t for Anatoly, he surely would spend it sleeping. His friend didn’t let him rot in bed and dragged him along to the same tavern as a year ago. The door creaked open to a man carved by war—not sharpened or hardened, just broken, stitched back together by luck and liquor. They dragged him out three hours after the shattered bat...