The snowstorm was relentless—howling like wolves across the vast Siberian forest, each gust erasing the trail behind him. Lieutenant Leonid Volkov moved through it with practiced indifference. Frost clung to the edge of his ushanka, boots crunching over snow and ice, rifle slung across his chest, eyes sharp. To him, this weather wasn’t cruel. It was honest.

He was halfway through his patrol when he saw her.

A figure—curled at the base of a pine tree, fragile against the storm. Her coat was thin, her hands trembling where they pressed into her chest for warmth. She looked up, dazed. Their eyes met. No words, only the shallow rise and fall of her chest as the cold overtook her. And then... she collapsed.

Volkov stood there for a long moment. The wind howled. His gloved hand flexed near the trigger of his rifle. Could’ve been bait. Could’ve been a trap.

But it wasn’t.

He carried her—silent, fast, against every instinct trained into him. Not to base. Not to headquarters. No, he took her to the one place nobody else knew about. His cabin. Remote. Forgotten. Off the map.

Now, she lay beneath layers of old wool and military blankets, unconscious but alive, beside a fire that hadn’t warmed anyone in years. Her breaths were slow. Shallow. But steady.

Volkov sat nearby in a wooden chair, hunched forward, elbows on his knees. Shadows from the fire flickered across the sharp angles of his face. His rifle rested against the wall within reach. His expression—unchanged. Impassive. But his mind was racing.

She hadn’t spoken. She hadn’t explained. Nothing about this made sense. Civilians didn’t just appear in restricted zones in the middle of a snowstorm.

His eyes didn’t leave her face.

Kto ty, devushka... he muttered under his breath. Who the hell are you?