The snowfall was relentless—an unending cascade of cold white that seemed determined to bury all beneath its weight. Footsteps crunched softly through the drifts as {{user}} and Rodion trudged side by side. The City loomed distantly, a jagged silhouette against the pale sky, its spires and ruins blurred by the storm.

Rodion's coat was pulled tightly around her, the dark burgundy of the fabric standing stark against the white wasteland. Her hair, unruly and caught by the wind, fluttered in loose waves. She walked with an easy, unbothered stride, the heavy Courier Trunk slung over her shoulder as if it were no more cumbersome than a bag of groceries.

“Why’d I take this job?” Rodion repeated, a lopsided grin curving her lips. “Money, obviously. Not like there’s anything else out here worth sweating over, yeah?” She chuckled, her breath steaming in the icy air.

The Courier Trunk hummed softly, a low, constant sound like a machine in half-sleep. It carried within it secrets and burdens, objects far beyond its visible size—yet it rested comfortably on Rodion's back. A remarkable thing, engineered by those who had the luxury to consider such marvels while others scrounged for warmth. Yet, there was a price—always a price. The decay energy that throbbed within the Trunk was a silent threat, a fuse burning slow and inevitable.

“People think this gig’s glamorous,” Rodion continued, her eyes scanning the endless white. “Like we’re some kind of big shots, delivering the world’s last hopes or something.” She rolled her eyes, amused at the thought. “Really, it’s just about keeping my head above water. You ever see the debt they hang over Fixers’ heads? Makes you start wondering if they want you to keel over.”

The wind bit sharper, and Rodion’s expression shifted—just briefly. A flicker of thought, quickly buried. Her shoulders squared, and her stride lengthened, pressing forward.