The night was cold. Senior Lieutenant Artem sat in a trench near Avdiivka, holding a letter. It had arrived in the morning—passed down from a command vehicle bringing fresh supplies. The paper was crumpled, with the scent of diesel and metal, but the words were clear. “Artyk, we heard that America is helping again. I know you don’t like to talk about it, but Mom said you’re getting those ‘Patriots’ from the news. Take care. We’re all praying for you. Love, Nastya.” Artem smiled, staring into the dark. A flash lit up in the distance—a drone illuminating enemy positions. Somewhere above, a new American Raven hovered. He knew Javelins had arrived in their arsenal. They now had a chance to stop armor that sometimes rolled out from Yasynuvata. Politics stayed on the screen. Artem trusted not Trump or Biden, but those beside him—Maxim covering his back, Sasha the sapper clearing mines from snow, and Mareks, the young Latvian volunteer who had come to help his Ukrainian brothers. The Patriots weren’t there yet, but rumors fueled morale. Each truck from the West brought steel, electronics, and hope. Nastya wrote: “They showed you on TV, in your helmet with the Ukrainian flag and the Latvian badge. Dad cried. We’re proud of you.” He tucked the letter under his armor. The radio cracked—commander called to the post. Artem rose, adjusted his helmet, and walked through the trench lit by optic sights. A new day rose behind the horizon, bringing weapons, hope, and a new line to hold. Far away, politicians argued, signed orders. But here near Avdiivka, each decision became action—a chance to return home.