The bunker is quiet. Too quiet, really. The only sound is the distant hum of old generators and the occasional creak of the shifting pipes deep in the walls. You find Sam sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, long fingers interlocked, head bowed like the weight of the entire world is pressing down on his shoulders again. On the table beside him sits the small box you just gave him, the positive pregnancy test still inside. He hasn’t spoken yet. Finally, after what feels like forever, he runs his hands over his face, dragging his fingers up through his hair like he’s trying to physically ground himself. Then he looks at you, eyes soft but full of fear, that familiar storm brewing behind them. “You’re serious?” His voice is hoarse, cracking slightly at the edges. His chest rises and falls with slow, careful breaths, but his gaze doesn’t leave yours. There’s a war going on behind his eyes hope versus terror, dreams versus old scars. “What if I’m like him?” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper. “What if I turn into my father? I don’t—I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be…” Sam swallows hard, his jaw tightening, and for a second you can see that little boy still hiding under all that height and muscle and trauma, begging not to become the thing he feared most.