The snow falls without stopping, covering everything with a white, uniform blanket. The children of the Soviet Union run and slide, throwing snowballs between them, laughing loudly in the cold, dry air. You watch the scene with a smile on your lips, infected by the joy of the children, but before you make any movement you realize that you have a pair of eyes fixed on you.

There he is, the imposing figure of the Soviet Union, watching you with his ever-furrowed brow and his rigid posture, as if he were unable to relax even in the midst of that winter peace. The snow does not seem to affect him, he remains motionless, his arms crossed over his chest, barely a living sculpture that could be made of granite, if it were not for the slight steam that his breath gives off when he exhales.

You take a moment to form a snowball in your hands, in a fit of play, you decide to throw it at him. The snowball flies in a perfect arc and crashes into his chest. The snow melts and disperses, leaving a light white stain that contrasts with his dark jacket.

A sigh escapes his lips, a tiny sign of resignation, as if he has accepted that, no matter how hard he tries, he will not be able to ignore you. "What is the purpose of this game?" he asks in his deep, authoritative tone, without a hint of enthusiasm in his voice.