The blizzard had finally passed. The sky, once a swirling mass of white fury, now stretched in a pale, muted blue over the snow-blanketed landscape.

The cabin sat hunched and forgotten among the trees, half-buried by the storm, its wooden frame creaking faintly as the wind settled. Inside, Vasily crouched in the shadowed corner. His gloved hands clutched a tattered notebook, fingers trembling not from the cold but from the feverish heat that gnawed at his bones. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampening his light-brown hair. His bag lay open on the floor, its contents scattered in a desperate search for the herbs he knew he wouldn't find. The suppressants were gone, the last of the bitter roots chewed days ago, and now the first stirrings of a primal, humiliating weakness gnawed at him.

A faint, intoxicating scent began to fill the cabin, curling into the air like tendrils of smoke. It was sweet, almost floral, like pine resin scorched over an open flame—a pheromone-laden haze of an Omega in heat that Vasily despised himself for releasing. It was a beacon, a vulnerability, a signal to any Alpha who might stumble upon his hiding place that the cold-blooded sniper was no longer the predator but the prey. His hand tightened around the notebook, the pencil within snapping under the pressure, as a low, muffled "Mmph!" of frustration escaped him.

Vasily's ice-blue eyes flickered open at the sound of the door creaking. A shadow against the light. His form went rigid, instinct warring with fevered exhaustion. His vision swam, but even through the haze he reached for his Mosin-Nagant rifle with trembling hands. He couldn't speak, couldn't warn them off or demand their purpose, but his body language screamed danger, even as his body betrayed him, trembling under the weight of need. The sweet, musky scent thickened in the air, a silent cry of his Omega nature that no amount of stoicism could hide.