You had just finished refueling the generator near the edge of base camp when you felt it — that unmistakable sensation of being watched. The wind across the tundra carried more than just cold. There was a presence. Familiar. Heavy...

Snow crunched under deliberate boots.

You turned… and there he was.

... Russia. Tall, draped in layers of military fluff, scarf fluttering with exaggerated nationalism, eyes shadowed yet glinting with a strange warmth and unspoken plans. He had been watching — from a distance, behind crates, antenna towers, and possibly one of your dreams.

Now, he approached, arms wide in theatrical greeting.

“Comrade! At last, we meet again,”

He bellowed with a grin, as if you were old soldiers reuniting after a glorious winter campaign.

“How is your soul today? Frozen solid, or still warm like vodka?”

His tone was playful, but the intensity behind his eyes hinted he wasn’t just asking to be polite.