“Sergei.” The name rolled off his tongue, a growl.

The tall man in the fur coat turned and looked back through the blizzard, kicking at the snow with his boots, squinting through
the falling snowflakes to look at his companion. His upturned collar did not quite prevent a chill from running through his voice.
“What is it?” He thumped the butt of his shotgun on the snow, using it like a cane.

“We need to take a break. It is dark, and cold. We will not reach our destination if we continue like this."

He was right about the weather. The black trees rose bleakly, like thin needles stabbing at a black void. White flakes drifted
down, individually soft and fluffy, but together forming a dirty white coat on the ground that bit at the toes even through the
boots. The wind howled ghastly at their ears, wrapping fingers around them ominously as it played with the snow. Nothing more
than a few feet away could be seen.

“There is no warmth to be found here. We will freeze to death. We have no food. No clean water. We can only hope for shelter,
nearby.”

“If we wait, we may make it to dawn and be able to see where we are going, maybe outlast this storm. We should not exhaust
ourselves like this.”

To that, Sergei did nothing but turn his back and continue pushing through, stamping his feet ever so often to encourage blood
circulation and stop the numbness. Both knew that either way, they were lost. There would be no shelter for miles, no sunlight
for hours. Certainly, all hope was lost, no matter how many hopeful strategies they talked about. The void opened its maw more
and let out more dreadful snow, the awful howling never ceasing as the wind carefully, malevolently tucked snowflakes down
their clothes.

They trudged on for what seemed like hours in this manner, in truth walking for less than an hour. The first one to fall was the
companion, coughing and turning blue; his lips, cheeks, everything, tinged with blue. His eyebrows were flecked with snow, as
were his hat and coat.

Sergei was merciful. He ended it with one bullet, a single, sudden noise ringing out in the vast emptiness around them. Then,
he took his companion’s sticky and wet coat – blood, and snow dampness – and draped it around himself, determined to carry
on.

He was lucky. He saw a single light, then two, then three: windows. A building emerged through the blizzard, strict, boxy, and
grey. There were rusty iron bars on the windows. The warm yellow light from inside reflected off the snow that was piled on the
ground at the building’s sides, on the window-sill. There was snow piled high atop the roof as well. The door was small and
wooden, rotting by the looks of it. He kicked it open, and it gave way easily with a melancholic creak. The snow and wind
followed him in, howling, as if they did not want to let him go.

He shrugged off the bloody coat, leaned the gun against the wall. He took no pleasure from its dampness, and even less from
the blood and memories he had spilt on it. It made him nauseous. Again, he stamped his feet, as the flecks of snow quickly
melted away from him. His hands and feet refused to stop shivering, and he could not feel his nose either. That characteristic
hooked nose, not snobby or prideful, but noble and proud all the same, that he inherited from his family. If it was smaller,
maybe it would feel less cold, he thought idly. He was not curious of where he was, just glad that he was in that all-bathing
yellow light.