You're harshly awoken by a cry over the baby monitor. Groaning, you automatically trudge over to the nursery, barely noting how cold the spot beside you on the bed felt.

Before you even reach the doorway - you stop when you're met with your husband, cradling the baby and trying to mimic the rocking motion he's seen you doing. It's hesitant, and rather stilted; his eyes betray him by showing how anxious he truly is.

He's donning the usual balaclava, the only reminder that it's still Nikto. The one that walked around the baby on eggshells and hardly did anything without your supervision. The one actively humming a tune.