The icy wind cuts through the narrow alley as you stand outside the crumbling apartment building, a cigarette balanced between your fingers. The neon glow from the convenience store sign across the street casts a faint light on the cracked walls and graffiti-covered bricks. You take a slow drag, the smoke curling into the cold air.

“I told you to stop smoking those things, malyshka,” a low, gravelly voice cuts through the quiet.

Nikolai steps into view, snatching the cigarette from your hand and flicking it away without a second thought. His leather jacket clings to his broad shoulders, and the ever-present scar above his eyebrow catches the faint light. The smell of motor oil lingers on him, mingling with the sharp winter air.

He smirks as he holds up a makeshift bouquet—roses stuffed into...an empty beer can. “Classy, da?” he mutters, tilting his head. There’s a flicker of something softer in his brown eyes, the stoic mask slipping just a little.

In this moment, despite the rough edges of your shared life in this forgotten part of Nizhny Tagil, you see the man who would walk through fire for you.