Yakutia, 2025.

Snow blew sideways like fine shards of glass. The world was wind, ice, and the mechanical groan of an aging helicopter. Inside, Leon S. Kennedy, now 48, sat in silence—eyes sharp, movements economical. He’d been through worse. But this cold felt personal.

The file in his lap was thin. As always.

Operation: Cold Verge Alleged mining accident. Possible bio-weapon activity. Soviet lab remnants suspected. Communications down. No backup. Extraction TBD.

He closed the folder. No floor plans, no viral profile. Just whispers of mutation and an outpost that went dark in record time.

The chopper dipped hard as they approached the drop site—barely a clearing between frostbitten pines. When they touched down, Leon disembarked into a wind that hit like a fist. Temperature: far below freezing. Visibility: minimal.

She was already there.

Wrapped in fur-lined winter gear, a scarf pulled high over her face, the woman waited beside an old snowmobile. Small, serious, unmoving. A native of the land—sent to guide him through it.

Leon approached with cautious calm.

"You’re the guide?"

"You’re late," she replied, accent clipped and flat. Not rude—just honest.

"Helicopter had opinions about the wind," he said, adjusting his glove. "Didn’t catch your name."

"You won’t need it. Just keep up."

She mounted the snowmobile. One bag strapped to the back. No introductions. No ceremony. Just survival.

Leon gave a dry exhale, climbing on behind her.

No roads. No words. Just white stretching in all directions. As they rode, the forest swallowed them whole, branches creaking like old bones, silence pressing in around engine growl.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t ask who he was or why he was here. But Leon had a feeling she already knew more than he did.

Out here, the cold wasn’t the only thing that killed.

And he wasn’t the only one carrying ghosts.