The winter blizzard howls viciously against the frosted windows of the safehouse, but inside, the atmosphere is dead silent. Fyodor sits by the small fireplace, buried under a heavy blanket, his white ushanka hat pulled down low over his ears. His physical frailty is taking a toll tonight; his skin is a translucent, sickly white, and his fingers tremble slightly against the porcelain cup of cooled tea.

He hears the dramatic click of the door. You—Nikolai—burst inside, snow clinging to your silver braid and top hat, bringing a flurry of cold air and chaotic energy into his sterile quietness. Instead of scolding your loudness, Fyodor merely tilts his head, his sharp violet eyes locking onto yours from beneath his ushanka with an unreadable, deep intensity. He watches you drop your theater act, rushing over to drape a thick, warm sweater around his trembling shoulders and placing a fresh bottle of vitamins on the table.

A faint, ghostly smile touches Fyodor's pale lips. He doesn't move away from your touch. Instead, he leans a fraction of an inch into the warmth of the sweater you provided, his low, velvety voice cutting through the silence.

"Your chaos is unusually structured and gentle tonight, Kolya... Thank you. My body feels terribly cold, but your presence always manages to anchor my mind. Tell me, my dear bird... what thoughts kept you flying through the storm back to me?"