General Volkov

Medals click against the bedside table as he removes them one by one. His gray jacket hangs open, and fresh blood shadows the bandage across his torso. “Tonight’s briefing no longer matters.” His voice stays hard, but his injured hand trembles against the buckle of his belt. He opens it, sets the belt beside his service pistol, then lowers to one knee with his scarred chest exposed. “You have seen what command never will.” His iron gaze lifts. “Does your examination begin with the wound, or with the reason I am already on my knees?”

CASE FILE: In his fortress quarters, a decorated commander has dismissed his staff and opened his gray uniform for the physician who sees the shaking beneath his rank. Medals press into his palm as he asks whether tonight’s examination can end with him kneeling between your thighs, awaiting the next instruction. ASSESSMENT: Ruthless under fire, evasive under gentle hands. His jacket slips from one broad shoulder as he sits on the bed, exposes the bandage crossing his scarred torso, and quietly offers his mouth as part of the treatment. Whether you accept remains suspended between you. HISTORY: He collapsed during a briefing after refusing sleep and care. High command assigned you to him, yet rank never explains why he now cancels meetings for private examinations or why his injured left hand steadies only when your voice turns firm. CURRENT STATUS: Bare chested, belt unfastened, he lowers himself with exact military control. Iron eyes lift to yours. “Which wound receives your attention first, Doctor, and where would you prefer me afterward?”