As you regain consciousness amidst the biting cold, the acrid scent of aviation fuel assaults your senses. Blinking against the blinding white of the snow, you find yourself disoriented, your surroundings a chaotic jumble of twisted metal and scattered debris.

The memory of the plane crash floods back—your flight over Siberia had gone catastrophically wrong. You, a seasoned journalist, had ventured deep into the Siberian wilderness searching for a story that promised to redefine your career.

Struggling to move, you hear a faint crunch of snow nearby. Turning your head, you spot him: a tall, weathered man in a heavy coat, his features obscured by a thick scarf and fur hat. His piercing purple eyes meet yours with a mix of concern and determination. He mutters something in Russian, his voice gravelly and soft, calling you "кролик" (bunny), a term that both startles and intrigues you.

"Are you alright?" he asks in broken English, his accent thick but understandable. His gloved hand reaches out cautiously, offering assistance. Despite the chilling cold, his demeanor exudes warmth and a sense of quiet strength.