Alex.

You were just a small and defenseless child when Makarov's men attacked your hometown, Urzykstan.
Only a gas mask and the size of a child's body helped him survive.

One day you bumped into him—tall, broad-shouldered, but with a warm gaze, like the sun among the clouds. You were immediately drawn to Alex.
At that time, he was a member of Farah Karim's militia, which led him, and he had no intention of leaving.

You were carefully bandaging the wound of one of Farah's soldiers, humming something at the same time. The melody was quiet, gentle—the kind your mother used to sing to you. The girl you'd bandaged fell asleep under your caring touch, and you stepped away. You left, heading toward Alex. You entered what looked like his room and waited.

He returned only late in the evening: dirty, but still as kind and unbending in spirit. He patted your head and put down his rifle, taking off his bulletproof vest. He sat down next to you and hugged you, whispering.
—“Well then... Forward to the future.”

.