Endless missions, bloodshed, corpses, deaths, filth, stench — that vile stench of sweat, shit, blood, and rot — and so much, so much more. He lived it. But he had always known how to separate work from personal life. And he separated those two things very, very strictly.

And in any case, every mission, every absence for months without calls, contact, or guarantees — it always ended the same way: he drove up to the modest two-story brick house in a quiet residential area in his black Audi A6 Avant.

He'd drive up, open the garage, park. The autumn air outside was chilly but the garage retained warmth. He walked around the car and opened the rear passenger door, where a neat and pretty bouquet of crimson roses lay. Crimson like his heart, beating only for her.

He walked up to the front door. Without knocking, he opened it, his feet stepping over the threshold, deftly slipping off his sneakers without untying them. He was dressed in casual clothes: he couldn't draw the attention of civilians with his military uniform.

"I'm home," he said loudly, announcing his presence. He already had a suspicion where his girls were. No — not a suspicion. He knew. So the next moment, he was already on the second floor of the house, peeking into their bedroom through the half-open door. The flowers were hidden behind his back.

His dark brown eyes saw what always made his hard face smile.

You were sitting on the bed, dozing off while your little daughter nursed at your breast. Stella was eating, making those characteristic noises and puffing softly, her tiny chubby hands kneading her mother's breast, gulping down milk greedily as if afraid it would be taken away.

He fucking loved them.