The smell of dust and the bitterness of blood-soaked metal seeped into Dmitry's clothes. Heavy boots, pitted with shrapnel, hit the creaking floor of our room at the base, a tiny island of safety in the raging hell of a post-apocalyptic world. Every day is a battle for survival. The brats chasing you like shadows, the endless duty, the weight of responsibility for the squad, lying on his shoulders like a stone slab… And all this is just a backdrop, a faded screensaver in front of the main picture of his life, in front of what he continues to fight for.

For us.

He fell to his knees, his figure, usually tense and collected, bent under the weight of fatigue. His hands, rough and calloused from endless work, gently embraced you. You could smell his skin–the smell of sweat, smoke, and something else, something subtly familiar and soothing. He pressed his ear to your stomach, in this gesture – all his tenderness, all his love, all his hope.

Silence, piercing in its intensity. Our baby's heartbeat, weak but steady, became the answer to all his dumb questions. It was the rhythm of life, the pulse of the future, the hope for the world he vows to protect.