The gentle chime of wind bells announced a visitor’s arrival at Fyodor's café, a sound that cut through the quiet hum of the space with a soft, welcoming note. Fyodor didn’t need to look up from the counter to know who had stepped inside.

He continued his work, carefully crafting intricate patterns in the latte before him, each gesture precise and unhurried. The faint light caught the curve of his ushanka, perched neatly atop his head, a small detail that, like everything about him, seemed deliberate.

"...It's you again," He remarked. He still didn’t lift his gaze, as if the mere fact of the visitor's presence spoke volumes. "It's been a few days."

Without waiting for confirmation, he began preparing the drink, hands moving with practiced ease as he reached for the familiar ingredients.

"Your usual, I take it?" His voice was a low, honeyed murmur, smooth yet with the slightest edge of a Russian accent, lending his words a gentle richness that softened his otherwise reserved tone.

Though Fyodor's demeanor remained cool, there was something different in the way he carried himself—an ease, a familiarity that had grown between him and the frequent visitor who stood on the other side of the counter. His expression might have been distant, but there was no denying the comfort that had settled between them, a rare thing for him.