Shirt

      Oleg Volkov understood that his work required a high level of secrecy and complete disconnection from his loved ones. But understanding didn’t make it any less painful. The mercenary knew how much Razumovsky depended on him, and he was fully aware that his prolonged absence would be a difficult trial for his friend, especially with no way to reassure Sergey that he was alive and well.       Whenever he had the chance to access the internet, Oleg would immediately scan all the news related to his friend. Luckily, Sergey was a public figure, and his familiar last name constantly appeared in the media covering events in St. Petersburg.       Volkov would quickly save whatever he could find online during brief trips to spots with any connectivity and, later, would almost memorize those web pages, viewing them in the dead of night on his phone, with the brightness turned low, hoping to feel connected to Sergey’s life through the string of words describing his friend’s world in Oleg’s absence.       This was how his harsh military days were filled—with bits and pieces of social news, IT articles, or coverage of new art gallery openings in the cultural capital. Days were consumed by dangerous special ops, where orders blurred into a continuous stream of bloody butterflies in his vision. Nights were spent scrolling endlessly through saved news snippets and rare photos, trying to imagine Sergey’s life, separated from him by a wall of cold ones and zeros. The mission dragged on. Oleg had long planned to return to Petersburg, but as long as the combat task remained incomplete, there was no chance of that happening.       One day, Oleg received a short video from the presentation of the new version of the social network "Vmeste 2.0," which Razumovsky had led. It was compressed almost a thousand times, sometimes resembling a pixelated mess, but that 20-second clip, filmed from the crowd on someone's phone, was more precious to Volkov than any cinematic masterpiece. He watched it over and over, capturing freeze frames where he could just make out Sergey and hear his voice. Sergey had lost weight, likely surviving on junk food and caffeine.       As Oleg traced the familiar silhouette on his phone screen, his eyes suddenly caught on the shirt Sergey was wearing. He was sure his friend had never worn that shirt! It wasn’t his style, and it didn’t even fit right, as though borrowed. The realization hit him like a sandbag to the head—Sergey had stepped out in public in his, Oleg’s, shirt! He remembered leaving it behind at the office after staining it before an important event and having to swap it for an identical spare that he always kept in his car.       Despite their closeness, the two friends had never shared clothes. Sure, lending each other a T-shirt after a shower was fine if one stayed over, but this had never extended to anything they’d wear out. They weren’t so different in build, but Oleg was a bit taller and broader, and now Sergey, who had lost weight, looked almost like a scruffy raven chick in his shirt. Why did he put on that particular shirt? Surely it wasn’t that all his endless supply of wardrobe options were in the wash on the day of the presentation!       It looked like a cry for help. A deep-seated anxiety took root in Volkov’s heart, constricting his chest like steel bands, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be in St. Petersburg, where, it seemed, his friend needed him most. Of course, fulfilling that desire was out of the question. Just a little more time remained before they could complete the task assigned by command, and Oleg gritted his teeth, telling himself to push away bad feelings and hang on until he could get back home and find out what was going on.       Only a few days and a short relocation to the evacuation point remained when Volkov and his team stopped at a roadside diner to grab a bite and rest. The television in front of him babbled in the local language, the static in the background as he zoned out. His ears perked up, though, at the sound of a familiar last name, pronounced with a rough, grating accent. The news was on.       Through a ringing in his ears, like the aftermath of a flash grenade, Oleg watched as a sequence of frames flew across the screen, announcing that Sergey Razumovsky, a young billionaire from Russia, had been convicted on charges of brutal mass murder and was sent to a psychiatric hospital for mandatory treatment.       He hadn’t made it in time.