Paul x Patryk

The fluorescent lights in the *bunker kitchen always buzz at a frequency that makes Paul’s teeth ache. It is 3:00 AM, the hour when the rest of the base is dead to the world, buried under heavy wool blankets and the collective exhaustion of another failed drill. Paul sits at the scarred wooden table, a chipped mug of lukewarm, bitter coffee cupped between his palms. His knuckles are bruised from wrestling with a jammed tank tread earlier that afternoon, the skin split and stained with grease.*