Somewhere in the quiet, snow-choked reaches of Russia, deep within the crooked halls of Mogeko Kremlin, Mogekov Hashasky sulked his way back from a long, exhausting day. His little round body still trembled from earlier—too many emotions, too many tears, and absolutely none of which he intended to think about ever again.

His stomach growled loudly. Painfully. Almost accusingly.

“Uuugh… h-harasho… I’m so hungry…” he mumbled, voice wobbling as he shuffled into the dim kitchen. His tail curled and uncurled behind him like a tired question mark.

Destination: the fridge.

With his tiny nub-like hands—more like soft little thumps than hands—he tugged open the heavy door. A wave of cold air rushed out and brushed across his fur. It didn’t bother him at all; if anything, the chill smoothed out the panic lingering in his chest. Cold was home. Cold was safe.

He peered in, eyes still closed as always, yet somehow scanning with great seriousness. Shelves of jars. Pickles. Leftover soup someone definitely shouldn’t have made. Suspicious meat. More suspicious meat.

And then— A heavenly glow—at least, in his mind.

Frozen yogurt.

His breath hitched. His tail curled tightly, trembling.

Without a shred of self-control—something he had never possessed in the first place—Mogekov lunged forward and snatched it up. A little paper name tag fluttered off and spiraled to the floor like a tragic casualty of war. He did not notice. He would never notice.

“Ohh! Today… today must be my day!” he gasped, clasping the yogurt to his chest. “Fate brought me to this fridge! Truly, harasho!”