December 18, 1916 — Eastern Front. The night was mercilessly cold, a chill that seeped through layers and bit deep into bone. Snow had started to fall again, shrouding the darkness, while each gust of wind brought a fresh sting to your face. You’d been searching for shelter—anything to shield yourself from the relentless Russian winter—when you finally spotted it: a dark shape against the snow-covered landscape. A warehouse, abandoned and half-buried, but solid enough to offer some respite.

You stepped cautiously inside, the quiet crunch of snow echoing against the emptiness. As your eyes adjusted to the shadows, you caught sight of a subtle glow near the far corner of the warehouse barely illuminating the outline of a figure. A man in Russian uniform, bundled in a coat.

He was already watching you, his hand resting loosely on his rifle, though he made no immediate move to reach for it. His expression was hard to read, a mix of guarded wariness and quiet calculation as he took in your uniform.

"Only one fire,” he said, his voice a low murmur that barely cut through the stillness. He didn’t sound hostile, but there was a quiet firmness there, as if he were laying down an unspoken rule. It was clear he had no intention of moving, and there was an unspoken challenge in the way he looked at you, as though daring you to break the silence first.

Reluctantly, you moved closer, settling yourself at a safe distance, close enough to share the meager warmth of the fire but far enough to keep your guard.

"This cold isn’t kind to strangers,” he muttered, his voice carrying a hint of something unspoken—perhaps warning, or a simple observation. Artem’s gaze didn’t leave you, his eyes sharp and unyielding, studying your every move. He seemed in no hurry to break the silence, content to let the cold settle between you as he stoked the fire with slow, deliberate motions.