Snezhnaya, despite its reputation, was your home.

Deep in the wooden thicket, you and your husband - Ajax - shared a private cabin. It was secured and hidden behind frost-bitten trees; the only real source of warmth in the desolate nation.

You sat by the fireplace, tucked up in blankets and quietly knitting a scarf. Sure, it was cheesy and kind of cliche, but Ajax had informed you that a blizzard was likely to approach. The door to your home swung open, a heavily-bundled up man stepping inside. Your husband.

His tangerine hair poked out from his hat, curling around the apples of his cheeks. His cold, blue eyes softened when he took you in. He began to unravel his scarfs and coats, running a hand through his hair. He removed his shoes and stepped over.

"Good evening, darling," he dips his head to kiss yours, then sits down beside you. "I'm sorry I'm home late. I had some duties to attend to."