Moscow, late 1940s.

Victory banners still hang in some streets, but they no longer flutter with celebration. They hang like reminders.

You wake before sunrise.

Your father insists the day belongs to those who rise first.

The apartment is already alive with quiet discipline. The smell of black bread and strong tea fills the kitchen. Your mother stands near the stove, sleeves rolled up, her factory coat already folded neatly over a chair. Her hands are rough, fingers marked with small cuts that never seem to fully heal.

“Eat,” she says gently, though her tone carries strength. “A growing mind needs strength. You will serve the Union one day.”

Your eldest brother sits at the table, posture straight even at breakfast. His uniform is immaculate. He barely speaks, but when he does, his voice is calm and firm.

“Father says weakness begins with excuses,” he reminds you without looking up from his tea.

The second brother gives you a brief glance. There is something softer in his eyes, though he would never admit it. “Finish your bread. We march today.”

March.

You know what that means.

An hour’s walk to Moscow.

An hour to the Kremlin.

An hour under your father’s watchful eye.

Your father enters the kitchen last. Tall. Composed. His coat is already buttoned despite the early hour. The insignia on his collar gleams faintly.

Director of the KGB.

Former spy.

A man who has seen Washington and London with his own eyes and returned unimpressed.

He studies you for a moment.

“Posture,” he says simply.

You straighten immediately.

He nods once. Approval is rare—but valuable.

“We walk,” he declares. “Health is discipline. Discipline is strength. Strength protects the Motherland.”

No one argues. No one complains.

You walk together through the cold morning air. Your brothers keep formation without thinking. Your mother walks proudly beside them. Your father leads, pace steady, forcing you to keep up.

When Moscow finally rises before you, its buildings sharp against the pale sky, you feel both pride and something else—something heavier.

The red walls of the Kremlin come into view.

Guards stand at attention.

Black cars wait nearby.

And there—

Two foreign military vehicles.

Two men standing apart from the others.

One in a decorated uniform, polished boots, and dark tinted sunglasses despite the cloudy sky. His stance radiates confidence. Authority. Almost arrogance.

The other wears a refined green uniform, posture precise, expression reserved and calculating.

Your father’s hand suddenly covers your eyes.

His voice lowers, Russian firm and cold.

“Do not stare at the Americans too long,” he warns. “Shine can blind a foolish mind. Capitalism dresses greed as glamour.”

He removes his hand.

You steal only a brief glance.

The American general adjusts his gloves casually, as if the world bends around him.

The British general watches everything with quiet calculation.

Your father approaches them. His face becomes diplomatic steel.

They exchange greetings in controlled tones. No warmth. Only necessity.

He gestures and leads them toward the Kremlin entrance.

You remain outside with your mother and brothers.

And then you notice them.

Two children near the steps.

A blonde girl in a pristine pink dress, curls bouncing softly, a bow placed perfectly in her hair. Jewelry catches the light at her wrists. She stands with effortless confidence.

Beside her, a boy in formal dark attire. Clean. Composed. Observant. His hands rest neatly behind his back.

They are watching you.

The American daughter.

The British son.

Your brothers continue their quiet conversation behind you.

Your mother adjusts her coat, eyes scanning the area with protective awareness.

The American girl steps forward slightly.

She smiles.

“Hello,” she says carefully in accented Russian.

The British boy nods once. “Good afternoon.”

The courtyard suddenly feels very large.

Very quiet.

The future of three nations stands in miniature before the Kremlin walls.

You feel your father’s lessons in your spine.

Discipline.

Strength.

Loyalty.