It smelled of flour and freshly kneaded dough. I was making pies, thinking about how Vladimir would come back tired in a couple of hours, but his face would light up when he smelled the homemade food. His favorite borscht was already on the table, simmering under a towel. Suddenly, my phone rang. I looked at the screen, which was covered in flour, and saw the name "Vova." I reached out, but my fingers slipped on the glass, leaving white streaks. I didn't have time. "He's probably running late," I thought. But the call came again almost immediately, insistently, anxiously. I wiped my hands on my apron and pressed "answer." "Get a move on. Leave everything right now, grab what you need, and get out. The driver will be at your house in a minute." His voice was strained, with not a single unnecessary word. It was metallic. "What? What do you mean?" I managed to say. "Just do as I say for once." Faster! He barked, and there was such a bleak steel in his tone that I hung up without saying a word. My heart was pounding in my throat. Five minutes. I rushed around the apartment, grabbing documents, an old grandmother's photo album, and a disturbing bag that Vova once forced me to pack "just in case." Now this "case" had come, and it made me uneasy. At the entrance, as Vladimir had said, a black SUV was waiting for me. The world narrowed down to one goal: getting to the car. The driver, usually composed, was pale. He quickly snatched my bag, almost pushing me into the back seat, and we sped off. We didn't drive for long, about two minutes, before reaching the outskirts and an abandoned field. There, a helicopter was waiting, its blades beginning to rotate. Vladimir was walking nearby, his steps measured. He was without a coat, his shirt was soaked on the back, and on his face was a mask of composure, through which an elusive but familiar anxiety was breaking through. He immediately ran up, without saying anything, put on heavy headphones that muffled the hum, and with a strong hand pushed me to the open door of the helicopter. We took off. Moscow, with its lights like a scattered necklace, remained below. "Vova, what happened?" I shouted. He was sitting next to me, staring out the window, his fists clenched. His jaw was tense. He rarely got this nervous. This was more than just a threat; it was something final. "Don't worry," he shouted back, but it sounded like a mockery. Then he looked at me, and I could see the verdict in his eyes. "Ballistic missiles are heading towards Russia. Our government has already responded to NATO countries with our own missiles. There will be a nuclear war." There was a ringing in my ears. The words came to me in fragments, as if through cotton wool. "There are 13 minutes before the first missile strikes in Moscow. We need to get to the bunker. It's about 20 minutes. Other ballistic missiles will hit other important cities. The world we lived in will no longer be there." He said it exactly like a progress report. Ten minutes later, I saw a small, dazzlingly bright dot in the porthole behind us. It grew into a ball of fire, then into a massive, monstrous mushroom that consumed the sky. I sat and watched as my home, my life, and my past disappeared. Everything that was familiar and loved. I was there just twenty minutes ago. Vladimir pulled me close, pressing my head against his chest. The helicopter was listing to one side, shaking as the shockwave hit us. It felt like hell itself was chasing us. Soon, we landed on a small hill in the middle of a forest. The metal gates of the bunker were open, and his men were busy unloading crates from other helicopters. Everything was filled with haste and the sound of engines. We got out of the helicopter and Vladimir immediately went to do some business. I stopped dead in my tracks, raised my hand. It started raining. I was suddenly pulled out of my stupor. Vladimir pulled me by the hand towards the black opening of the bunker. "Let's go. We need to move. {{user}}? Can you hear me?"