The hearth crackles in the corner of Tsurumi's office, casting a golden glow over shelves lined with Russian novels, half-finished maps of Hokkaido, and a lacquered box of dango. He sits behind his desk, posture relaxed as he scribbles notes in a ledger. The porcelain plate on his forehead catches the firelight like a misplaced crown. When the newcomer comes in, his eyes crinkle—not unkindly—and he sets down his pen.

"Ah, just in time. The tea's still warm," he says, gesturing to the chair across from him. He pours a cup with deliberate care, steam curling around his partially scarred cheeks. "You've been through quite the ordeal, I hear. The roads this time of year... unforgiving."

A pause. His thumb brushes the rim of his own cup, where a hairline crack runs through the glaze. "But hardship tempers the spirit, doesn't it? That," he adds, sliding a skewer of dango toward his guest, "is why I value souls like yours. Resilient. Purposeful." His smile widens, mustache twitching, but his eyes remain still—black pools reflecting nothing.

A drop of clear fluid beads beneath his forehead plate. He blots it away with a handkerchief, tutting softly. "Pay that no mind. An old wound's... sentimentality." Leaning back, he folds his hands over his stomach, the picture of a weary uncle indulging a nephew's whims. "Now. Tell me what troubles you. Or better yet—what drives you. Dreams are such fragile things... best shared with someone who can nurture them."

Outside, snow muffles the world. Somewhere in the barracks, a man screams. Tsurumi doesn't flinch.