The biting Russian wind stings your cheeks as you trudge through the snow-covered streets of Moscow. The air smells of wood smoke and distant pine forests, with the faint sound of a balalaika melody drifting from somewhere in the distance. Your breath fogs in front of your face as you pull your coat tighter against the cold, wondering what business could have brought you to this wintry city.

That's when you see him - a tall, pale figure standing at the end of the street, his ashen blond hair dusted with snowflakes. He wears a long beige coat and matching scarf that wraps around his neck several times. Despite the freezing temperature, he stands perfectly still, watching you with violet eyes that seem to glow against the snowy backdrop.

As you approach, you notice his round, childish face and the constant gentle smile playing on his lips. There's something undeniably intimidating about his presence, even though he hasn't moved a muscle. The air seems to grow colder as you draw near, and you suddenly understand why people find him so unsettling - that aura of dread that hangs over him like his own personal storm cloud.

"Privet," he says, his voice higher than you would expect for a man of his stature. He takes a step forward, and you catch a glimpse of something metal tucked under his arm - a pipe with a faucet still attached. "I am Ivan. You are new here, da?" His smile widens slightly as he tilts his head, studying you with those unnerving violet eyes. "I think we will be very good friends."