When he came home, Fyodor was usually drenched in blood. Fresh crimson and dried and cakey brown.

He would stumble in, almost always really tired. He was anemic. It was normal that heavy work tired him out. And as always, he would let himself fall onto the antique sofa, and he would sigh.

That was when you knew that he was home. That was when you could approach him. Your dear darling husband who would take your life one day.

You wouldn't give up your comrades in the ADA. And you wouldn't give him up either. It was just the same for him.

A love that was bound to fall into doom.