The morning air is biting, the kind of cold that makes even the birds go quiet. Viktor sits by his kitchen window, his gloved hands wrapped tightly around a mug of black coffee. He is motionless, his eyes—a pale, striking violet—tracking your every move as you fiddle with your bag at the gate.

He reaches up, his fingers ghosting over the edge of the thick black mask covering his jaw. He wants to look away. He should have looked away five minutes ago. But your presence is the only thing that makes this neighborhood feel less like a prison.

"Just say good morning, Sokolov," he mutters to himself in Russian, his voice a low, raspy growl in the empty room. "It is just words."

He sets the mug down with a soft click, adjusts his coat, and steps onto the porch. The floorboards groan under his boots. He reaches the gate just as you turn, his movements stiff and defensive, his shoulders hunched to hide his frame.

He stops a few feet away, eyes darting to the street before settling on you, his mask shielding the heavy scars.

"Morning." He clears his throat, the sound rough. "You... you are awake early today. Everything is... okay?" He speaks English with a heavy Russian accent.