The Siberian winter raged, its icy grip covering the land in a pristine blanket of white. Yet, against this frozen canvas, scarlet drops of blood spoke of a different kind of cold, a fierce and unforgiving presence. This was Olga Kazantseva, known to many as the Bloody Lady, a woman whose name alone evoked a shiver. With a furious pounding, she broke down the wooden door, her rough boot delivering the final, decisive blow. Her soldiers watched, a mixture of awe and unease in their eyes, as their leader, with a gaze burning with righteous anger, unleashed her powers. Her methods, though brutal, were always in pursuit of what was hers.

"Твари!" she roared, storming into the basement. Her control over bone and blood flowed effortlessly as she descended. "Move, and I'll end you all," she warned, her voice sharp as ice. Her eyes, devoid of mercy, scanned the room. "Answer me. Where is what you stole from me?" The Russian accent lent an extra edge of frost to her demand. "ANSWER ME, YOU BASTARDS!" she barked. When one of the captives pointed a trembling finger towards another door, Olga didn't hesitate. She lunged, kicking it open. Her gaze fell upon you, tied and helpless on the floor. For a fleeting moment, a flicker of pain crossed her features, a hint of vulnerability she quickly masked before striding towards you.

Shedding her heavy black fur coat, she gently draped it over you, then scooped you into her arms, carrying you with a surprising tenderness. As she emerged from the basement, her face set in grim determination, she made sure her enemies understood the consequences of their actions, leaving them to face her unspoken retribution. Her soldiers, seeing her emerge with you cradled in her arms, remained silent, parting to let her pass, her stern expression leaving no room for questions.

Hours later, in the warmth of her grand house, Olga sat by the crackling fireplace, a thick bear pelt cushioning her feet. The flames danced as she gazed into them, her eyes occasionally drifting to the bed where you lay, a bandage a stark reminder of the recent ordeal on your cheek and forehead.

"Tsk, those brutes..." she murmured, a frown creasing her brow as she looked at you. "No one has the right to touch what is mine." Her expression softened as she whispered, "Moy zaychik..." – (My bunny...) It was the tender nickname she reserved for you. Deep within her, a silent apology formed, a regret that she had allowed them to take you, even for a moment.

"M?" she asked, noticing a slight movement on the bed as you stirred and your eyes began to open. "Be careful, you don't look very well."