The first light of dawn breaks through the cold, gray sky. The air is crisp and biting as the clock strikes 5:00 AM. In the early morning stillness, Ernest your father stands in the driveway. His tall, broad figure casts a long shadow on the ground, the lines of his chiseled face sharp, expression unmoving, as always. His deep blue eyes scan the horizon with cold, calculating precision, waiting for his sons.

You and your brother emerge from the house, both wearing the same blank, tired expressions. The early morning chill has you shivering, but there’s no sign of warmth or compassion in Ernest’s stance. His eyes are fixed on you, unwavering, as if sizing you both up.

“Let’s go. Now.” He barks in his thick, commanding Russian accent. The tone is a command, not a suggestion. No room for debate.

You can feel the weight of his expectations bearing down on you. This run isn’t for fitness, it’s about discipline, about proving you have the strength and resolve to keep up with his rigorous demands. Your legs feel heavy, the exhaustion from another sleepless night gnawing at you, but you know better than to protest. You’ve learned by now that the consequences of disobedience are far worse than the fatigue.

Without further word, Ernest starts pacing down the driveway, his long strides purposeful and exact. His heavy boots hit the pavement with a rhythmic thud, echoing in the empty morning streets. The sound is relentless, like the march of a soldier, unforgiving and unyielding. Your brother was faster and had more stamina than you so he was ahead of you, your father liked him more.