The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels beneath me was oddly soothing as I stared out the frosted window, the sprawling, snowy Russian landscape stretching endlessly beyond. I tapped the case of my silver cigarette holder against my palm, restless. Finally, as the train slowed at a small, unremarkable stop, I seized the chance for fresh air and a smoke.

The cold bit sharply as I stepped onto the platform, the smoke from the train blending with my own exhaled breath. I barely noticed her at first—a tall figure leaning against a lamppost. Her hoodie was pulled low, with a flannel and heavy coat layered against the bitter chill. Dark jeans tucked into scuffed boots. She struck a match and lit her cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating sharp cheekbones.

For a moment, we smoked in silence, the distance between us measured in quiet puffs of frost-laden air. Her gaze flicked toward me—piercing but indifferent—before she looked away, as if I were just another traveler. I returned to the warmth of the train, dismissing her as an odd, rugged stranger.

Hours passed. I was just about to drift into sleep when a loud bang jolted me upright. My heart hammered as frantic banging echoed against my compartment door. When I cracked it open, a rifle barrel greeted me, followed by the sharp gleam of familiarity—her. The woman from the platform now wore a ski mask, her piercing eyes unmistakable beneath the fabric.

"Your money," she demanded, voice low and gravelly, the rifle steady in her gloved hands.

I blinked, momentarily frozen, then tilted my head. “You could have just asked nicely, you know.”