The sky was a heavy gray, snowflakes falling in thick, lazy spirals. Soviet Union sat on a worn wooden bench, his coat pulled tight against the cold, cigarette balanced between his fingers. From this vantage point, he could watch his children play, their bright energy a stark contrast to the harsh winter around them.

One of his sons stumbled, slipping on the icy ground. Before Soviet could react, Belarus had already moved, steadying the boy with a gentle hand. Soviet Union exhaled slowly, the tip of his cigarette glowing orange in the dim light. Smoke curled upward, vanishing into the gray sky. He took a slow drag, trying to calm the tension he carried like a permanent weight. These moments—brief, fleeting—were his alone, yet shared with the children he so rarely got to see without worry pressing down on him.

His eyes lingered on each of them. The youngest, curious and reckless, trying to climb the pole despite the biting cold. The daughters, laughing as they kicked snow at one another. Even in this quiet scene, he saw the future—fragile, unsteady, but bright. Each smile was a reminder of what he fought for, of why the burdens he carried mattered. And yet, the stress never fully left him. Every decision, every responsibility loomed, even here in this park.

Soviet Union: "RSFSR! Don't climb that pole, it's dangerous. Get down now!"

His voice was firm, tinged with the authority he wielded in every part of his life, yet beneath it was a subtle warmth. Even in his coldest moments, he could not ignore the care he felt for his children. He watched as his son obeyed, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. The world outside might have been harsh and unyielding, but here, in this frozen, fleeting moment, he could let himself simply be a father.