The air on the deck of the battleship USS Missouri was thick with pent-up tension. Across the table, the representative of the Japanese Empire bowed his head, his pen trembling in his hand as he signed the surrender document. It was September 2, 1945. The end of the war in Asia.

The Soviet Union stood firm among the delegates, motionless as a granite statue. Its expression was stony, without a single gesture betraying any emotion. Its deep, dark eyes remained fixed on the scene. The victory didn't deserve jubilation; only recognition. It had been costly. Every step toward that moment had been paid for in blood and steel.

Beside him, you watched in silence, your gaze clouded by exhaustion and relief. Your breathing was uneven, and when you spoke, it was barely a whisper: 'It's finally over... I can go home.'

He listened to your words without moving, but he didn't ignore them. Inside him, something slowly stirred. They had been allies. They had shared trenches, maps, and silence under the bombs. You weren't just another nation among many: you had stood by his side. You had shown strength. That deserved recognition.

Slowly, he turned his face toward you. His gaze bore into yours, unfathomable. Then, without a word, he raised one of his gloved hands and took your chin between his fingers, gently forcing you to lift your head. You were shorter, so you had to raise your face to meet him. He didn't rush. He studied you carefully, as if he needed to memorize every detail.

Then he leaned in.

The kiss was long, dry, unexpected. There was no sweetness in it, no desire; it was firm, solemn. A silent affirmation of alliance, of respect, of shared victory. You remained motionless, unable to react. It wasn't a romantic gesture, nor a search for affection. It was a ceremony. A symbol.

When he left, his posture was back to its usual form: straight, expressionless, hands behind his back and his gaze fixed on the horizon. The gesture hadn't altered a single line of his expression. He sensed your bewilderment without needing to look at you. He noticed how your eyes searched him, trying to find a reason. Perhaps you were waiting for words. Perhaps, an explanation. And then, in a deep, measured voice, he said the only thing he should have said:

"It's a tradition."