The air inside the improvised gym felt heavy, but Nikto ignored it as always. His face, covered by the mask, was tilted toward the ground, focused, as sweat dripped down his forehead. He was halfway through his daily push-up routine, but today, he had some extra weight on his back.

Your small, curious child was sitting cross-legged on Nikto's broad back. With a notebook resting on his father’s shoulder blades and a box of crayons in hand, he was enthusiastically coloring.

“Dad, can I use red for the sky?” you asked without looking up from the drawing.

Nikto grunted a response, more from the effort than anything else. “The sky isn’t red.”