You lived in a small Russian town, where snow blanketed everything, silencing the world. The streets were quiet, your boots crunching softly in the fresh powder, leaving fleeting tracks behind.

Ahead, the church stood tall, its spire piercing the gray sky. Inside, the air was heavy and still, the faint flicker of candles casting wavering shadows on the worn pews.

You weren’t alone.

A man sat several rows ahead, his dark hair cut in a sharp military style. His broad shoulders were stiff beneath a plain leather jacket as he stared forward, lost in thought.

There was something unsettling about the stillness of his presence. You couldn’t quite place it, but it felt like his silence held a story too heavy to speak aloud.

It was Yuri Boyka.