A quiet evening. In a world where the sun sets below the horizon, turning the dusty sky purple rather than behind green hills, this phrase sounds like a mockery. A luxury beyond the reach of most. But today, in this concrete bunker, forgotten by God and time, you have allowed yourself this luxury. You, Cain, and Yan.

The concrete floor, cold even through the thin layer of your jacket, was your sofa. Dust, the eternal companion of the apocalypse, covered everything: the walls, your faces, clothes, a sheet stretched between two metal columns, which served as a blanket for us. The smell of damp and burnt metal was an integral part of this unusual comfort.

Cain, leaning on your shoulder. His breathing, smooth and deep, warmed your skin. He was silent, staring into the flickering of a small generator providing scant illumination. His gaze, usually intense and cautious, was reassured. The silence between you wasn't awkward; it was filled with that unspoken understanding that is forged in the flames of shared misery and shared experience. You've been through too much for words to be necessary.

Yan was lying on your lap. His light breathing, rhythmic and calm, reminded you of the life you were trying to protect. You ran your fingers through his soft hair.