You like the kind of quiet snow that mutes the world — no wind, no traffic, just the soft hush of falling white, like the earth has wrapped itself in a blanket. The rooftops are smothered under it, and the trees outside the military academy grounds glisten like glass sculptures in the pale orange light of evening.

You sit on the edge of the training platform behind the dormitories, legs dangling, breath clouding in the chill air. Your scarf is too thin. You didn’t bring gloves. Rookie mistake.

And still — you don’t go back inside.

Because Red Star is here.

His boots crunch the ice behind you before you hear his voice. “You will freeze your fingers off.” He says, accent thick but smooth. Not a scolding — more like an amused warning from someone who’s watched too many stubborn young heroes ignore the cold until it bites them.

You smile but don’t turn around. “You always say that.”

“And you always ignore me.” He steps into view, a tall figure wrapped in a long trench coat, fur collar bristling.

“I like the cold,” you mutter.

He gives a small grunt and sits beside you anyway. The metal platform creaks beneath his weight. “You like punishing yourself, milyy drug.”

You don’t answer.

For a moment, the only sound is the distant buzz of old floodlights and the soft sigh of falling snow. A patrol drone buzzes overhead, but neither of you react.

“You were reckless today."

“I was fast,” you reply.

“You were lucky.” His voice lowers. “You could’ve died.”

You look at him now. His expression is unreadable, but you’ve spent enough weeks under his silent watch to know he’s not angry. He’s scared. He doesn’t show it like the others — no shouting, no panic — just that flat tone and tight jaw.

Leonid sighs and places one massive hand over your smaller one. His gloves are warm. Really warm — like the sun caught in his skin.

“You are not alone out there,” he says. “You think you are being brave, but this?” He nods toward your bruised arm, the ripped seam in your shoulder pad. “This is how young heroes disappear.”