Exterior – Auto Workshop
An aging building stood among rusted-out vehicles and half-dismantled fishing boats, surrounded by the thick smell of burnt oil and corroded metal. Faded Cyrillic signs hung precariously above the door. The kind of place where anything with an engine got a second life.

Interior – Workshop
The chaos was total: engine parts scattered across the floor, open oil cans, and an old radio dangling from a wire, crackling out Russian music mixed with static. The walls, stained with grease, were plastered with faded posters of car models and old calendars.
Beneath a beat-up truck, the clink of tools and metal echoed through the space.

Exhausted, Caliop entered with her backpack still on. She let out a frustrated sigh and dropped it to the floor with a dull thud.

MAX (in Russian, firmly):
—Viktor!

The noise beneath the truck stopped abruptly. A gruff voice muttered something in Russian before a burly man with a weathered face and a scruffy beard slid out from under the vehicle. His hard stare softened the moment he met Max’s eyes.
They approached each other slowly, tension thick in the air… until suddenly, they broke into a loud, brotherly embrace, laughing boisterously.

CALIÓP:
—Uh… hi, guys?

Max pulled away from the hug, slipping back into his usual composure.

MAX:
—Viktor, this is Caliop. Astrologer extraordinaire.
Caliop, this is Viktor—mechanic and… part-time smuggler.

Viktor wiped his greasy hands on a filthy rag, then shook Caliop’s hand with a firm grip.

VIKTOR:
—Pleasure is mine. If friend of Max, then you friend too. Feel at home.

They moved toward a battered table surrounded by makeshift chairs. Viktor settled into an old truck seat like it was a throne, then shouted in his deep, booming voice:

VIKTOR:
—Iván!

A chubby young man, covered in tattoos and wearing a grease-stained jumpsuit, appeared almost immediately. After a short, brusque exchange in Russian, Ivan vanished and returned moments later with a tray full of local pastries, a bottle of vodka, and a few small glasses.

CALIÓP:
—No, thanks. Last time I drank that stuff… I woke up on another continent.

Viktor burst into laughter and dipped a pastry straight into his vodka before taking a satisfied bite.

VIKTOR:
—If Max is here, it means two things: money for me… and trouble for you.

Max gave a faint smile, ignoring the jab.

MAX:
—I need a rugged vehicle. We’re heading into the woods—rocky terrain.
Something discreet. Survival gear. And you, if you’re available.

Viktor scratched his beard with a greasy hand, thinking it over.

VIKTOR:
—I can pull… how do you say? Strings? Gear’s expensive. Not cheap.
But Ivan… almost free.

MAX:
—You were never cheap.

Viktor raised a hand, revealing a stump, his face half serious, half joking.

VIKTOR:
—See this? His fault.
And if you need more proof...
(He starts unbuckling his belt.)

CALIÓP (covering her face, mortified):
—Okay, okay! I get it!

Viktor grinned, flashing a gold tooth.

VIKTOR:
—Payment in gold. Double. Bribes around here aren’t cheap.
Equipment’s rented—if it gets lost… more expensive.

MAX:
—Deal.

They shook hands with near-titanic force, sealing the agreement.

VIKTOR:
—You sleep here tonight. We leave early tomorrow.

As Viktor barked orders at Ivan—who clumsily scurried around the workshop—the place filled with the sounds of rough laughter, Russian music, and that unmistakable scent of oil… and adventure.

After sealing the deal at the garage, Viktor led Max and Caliop down a narrow, snow-covered trail toward his home—a rustic cabin of wood and stone, nestled among the trees and wrapped in the stillness of the Siberian night. The warm glow spilling from the windows offered a comforting contrast to the biting cold outside.

Interior – Viktor’s Cabin
The home was cozy and full of character, a reflection of Viktor’s adventurous spirit. The walls were lined with travel mementos, hanging tools, and a few hunting trophies.

.from the hunt. Every step across the aged wooden floor came with a gentle creak.

Viktor, smiling broadly, pointed upstairs.

VIKTOR:
—Rooms are ready up there.
Caliop, yours is on the right.
Max, you already know.
Rest well—tomorrow’s a long day.

Caliop nodded gratefully and climbed the creaky stairs, weighed down by the fatigue of the journey. She pushed open the door to her room and found a simple but cozy space: a large bed covered in a thick wool blanket, dark wooden furniture, and a foggy window that revealed the frozen night outside. She dropped her backpack to the floor and sat on the mattress, a smile of relief forming on her face.

She moved toward the small adjoining bathroom, its door slightly ajar revealing a modest sink and a fogged-up mirror. As she shut the door, the sound of running water followed—the soft rhythm of brushing teeth.

The camera stays in the room.
The front doorknob turns slowly. The wood creaks.
The door opens quietly, and Ivan, half-shrouded in shadow, peeks his head in.
His eyes scan the room and land on Caliop’s backpack.
He steps in silently and rummages through it, eventually finding a wristwatch.

The soft click of the bathroom door interrupts him.
Caliop emerges—and freezes at the sight.
Their eyes meet.
A tense silence grips the room.

Ivan raises his hands slightly, mumbling awkwardly in Russian, trying to defuse the moment as he steps back.

A low growl shatters the stillness.
The camera turns to the door, now slightly open—two eyes gleam in the dark.
Dagmar stands there, fur bristling, teeth bared in a silent threat.
The growl is ancient, instinctual—a warning.

Without looking away from Ivan, Caliop speaks with icy calm:

CALIÓP:
—You’d better get the hell out of here and never come near me again.

Dagmar, as if understanding every word, lets out a thunderous bark.
Ivan stumbles back, muttering clumsy Russian curses, and slips out the door, slamming it behind him.

Caliop lets out a deep breath, leaning back against the wall.
Then she kneels down and strokes Dagmar’s head.
He wags his tail with devotion.

CALIÓP:
—Alright, friend. I forgive you for the whole boat thing.
Wanna sleep with me tonight?

Dagmar answers with a big, wet lick that pulls a laugh from her.

CALIÓP:
—Okay, okay! I get it.

The camera slowly pulls back, leaving them in the warm intimacy of the room,
as the Siberian night continues its silent, mysterious course.