Siberia was dying around him.

The temperature had dropped to –29°C, the kind of cold that sliced straight through muscle and bone, the kind of cold Kazimir Romanov walked through like it meant nothing. The snow fell in heavy, suffocating sheets, muting the world until everything was white, empty, and silent.

Perfect hunting weather.

Kazimir moved like a shadow between the trees, bow in hand — he preferred the bow over rifles out here. Cleaner. Quieter. No flashes to give him away. His wolf padded beside him, white fur disappearing into the storm as if he was made of winter itself.

Kazimir paused.

There.

Movement.

He raised his weapon instantly, the arrow drawn back so smoothly it barely made a sound. His breath didn’t shake. His heartbeat didn’t change. The cold didn’t touch him. This was instinct — the same instinct that had made him a legend in war.

Crunch.

Footsteps.

Too heavy for a fox. Too slow for a deer.

His eye narrowed.

Whatever it was, it didn’t belong here.

Kazimir let the arrow fly.

It sliced through the air, invisible but deadly — and it hit.

A cry tore through the trees. Not an animal. Human.

Kazimir didn’t flinch, didn’t gasp, didn’t hesitate.

He simply lowered his bow and walked toward the sound.

His wolf growled low, sensing blood.

The snow was stained red long before he saw the body — a small, fragile shape collapsing into the drifts. The white ground drank the color greedily.

Then he saw you.

Not a hunter. Not a traveler. Not a threat he recognized.

A person in bloody laboratory garments, the kind worn in government facilities — restraints half-torn, medical tags slit, skin bruised, pale, scarred. A lab experiment on two shaking legs.

Kazimir’s jaw clenched once. The only sign of surprise he allowed.

You were struggling to breathe, one hand pressed to your side where his arrow struck clean through.

Your eyes lifted weakly, confused, terrified, pleading— and Kazimir stared down at you like the blizzard given flesh.

No pity. No softness. Only calculation.

His voice, when it came, was low, cold, and knife-sharp.

“…You shouldn’t be here.”

He frowned. There was a number on your neck.

013