The path was narrow—barely a miracle carved through the frozen wilderness.
At the end of the trail, an old Russian military truck sat half-buried in the snow, its body scarred with rust and the wear of time.
On the hood, the name “Nikkita” peeked through—faded, almost forgotten.

Inside the cabin, Ivan—a rugged man hardened by the shadows of Russian prisons—rested with the ease of someone who expected no surprises.
His solid frame was covered in faded tattoos—ghosts of another life.
In one hand, an open beer; in the other, a cheap phone playing a video that made him burst into a coarse, chesty laugh.

But something shifted.

A flash in the rearview mirror caught his eye.
His instincts moved faster than thought.
Without rising from his seat, he calmly opened the door and let the barrel of an AK-47 slide into view, resting it against the frame like it was part of him.

His gaze, sharp and laced with irony, fixed on the scene unfolding before him.

Caliop, drenched and caked in mud, stood panting—her clothes clinging to her body, wet strands of hair plastered to her face.
Beside her, Max, battered and looking like he’d survived a fistfight with a moving train.
And a few steps behind them, Dagmar sat peacefully in the snow, wagging his tail as he scratched his ear with lazy satisfaction.

Ivan let out a crooked grin, his finger never leaving the trigger.

IVAN (in Russian, with mocking tone):
—Ну и что за цирк я тут вижу?
(What kind of circus is this?)

He chuckled under his breath—
that gravelly, world-weary laugh only time could teach.

Without another word, he slammed the door shut.
The engine roared through the trees, coughing black smoke into the frozen air.
Nikkita came to life like her owner—old, tough… and ready for whatever came next.

Nikkita roared like a war beast, devouring the snow and mud of the harsh Siberian taiga roads.
The heavy machinery of the old military truck jolted with every bump, but its engines—seasoned by decades of service—didn’t falter.
Thick fog wrapped the scene in a ghostly veil, and the faint light of dusk barely pierced the pale horizon.
The biting wind whistled through the truck’s cracks, like a warning.

But something was off.

A metallic crunch.
Then—the unmistakable hum of light engines.

Suddenly, gunfire shattered the dead silence.
Tracer rounds sliced through the air, slamming into Nikkita’s body.
The impacts rocked the structure, branding its rusted skin with scorched metal and hot powder.

CALIÓP (shouting from the passenger seat, adrenaline in her voice):
—Faster, Ivan, faster!

Ivan didn’t need to be told twice.
His thick hand gripped the wheel tighter, faded tattoos stretching over his weathered skin.
With razor-sharp focus, he scanned the snow-streaked windshield.
A group of snowmobile riders was closing in—silhouettes cutting through the twilight.
They were fast.
But Nikkita was a monster.

With a guttural growl, Ivan slammed on the brakes.

The tires bit into the snow, throwing up a blizzard of ice.
The sudden stop caught their pursuers off guard.
One rider, too confident, tried to swerve—
but lost control.

His snowmobile spun wildly before crashing full-force into a tree, launching the rider into the air.
The others skidded to a halt to avoid the wreck—
buying a precious window of opportunity.

Ivan didn’t hesitate.

In a flash, he leapt from the cab with the swiftness of a man shaped by war.
The swirling storm around him was nothing compared to the cold of the Russian prisons he’d survived.
He sprinted toward the back of the truck.
From inside, the clatter of shifting crates and muttered Russian curses mixed with a deeper, heavier sound…

A growl.

The bear was awake.

Without hesitation, Ivan raised his AK-47.
His breathing was slow and measured—each bullet fired with surgical precision.
Gunfire cracked through the frozen air.
One by one, the attackers dropped.

Nikkita stood.
And so did he.

Silence returned—
but the danger hadn't fully passed.

Just a few meters away, a faint sound caught his ear:
a muffled groan, mixed with the grinding of metal.

Ivan turned his head and saw the last snowmobile rider dragging himself through the snow.
His leg bent at a grotesque angle, breath visible in short, ragged clouds.
Shaking with pain, he tried to lift his vehicle—
but his body betrayed him.

Ivan approached slowly,
with the composure of an executioner in no rush.

He crouched beside him, rifle resting on his knee, finger still firm on the trigger.
The snow crunched beneath his weight.

The rider looked up—eyes filled with a blend of fear and defiance.

Ivan tilted his head,
and spoke with chilling calm, each word a sentence in Russian:

—You shot at Nikkita…

The wind blew, howling through the trees.

The taiga waited for his decision.

Snow fell quietly, muting the echoes of the brief battle.
The rider’s body now lay still on the ice,
and Ivan remained in place—rifle still warm in his hands,
his breath drifting in heavy clouds.

But then—
a sound shattered the stillness.

Engines.

From the treeline, more shadows emerged.
Snowmobiles sliced across the terrain like predators on the hunt, followed by a black jeep—its body caked in ice and mud.
The headlights cut through the cold with a ghostly glare.

Too many.

Ivan narrowed his eyes.
He was a man forged in violence,
but even he could recognize a lost fight.
With a sharp breath, he stepped back toward the truck, mind calculating.
Nikkita still rumbled with the engine running.

The riders stopped—lined up in formation.
No one fired.

From the jeep, the door opened slowly.
An elegant and dangerous figure stepped out.

LIRA.

Her red hair cascaded wildly over her shoulders,
a long coat whipping in the wind.
In her arms, an Egyptian cat—slender, gray-skinned, one ear torn.
Her gaze, like her owner's: cold and calculating.

Lira walked forward with measured steps.
Her boots barely made a sound in the snow as she stopped before her men.
With the precision of an executioner, she placed the cat gently on the ground.

—Finish them.

Weapons rose.
Rifles trained on Ivan.

But before a single shot could ring out—
a voice cut through the cold, sharp and urgent, from beside the truck:

(shouting, holding the vinyl high):
—Stop! If you shoot, I break the record!

Time froze.
Weapons halted mid-air.

Lira squinted, evaluating.
Her smile was small—almost amused.

—Girl, that’s not a good idea.
(Stepping closer, her voice soft but deadly)
—I don’t think your travel companions will see the sunrise.

Then—
a barely perceptible movement.

From the snow, a white shadow emerged like a ghost.

Dagmar.

His fur had rendered him invisible in the taiga—
but now he moved with the deadly precision of a predator.
A flash of teeth.
A muffled scream.

Lira’s cat writhed in his jaws.

Dagmar didn’t kill it.
But he held it firm, a few playful but pointed bites making the message clear.
Then, slowly, he stepped beside Caliop and Ivan.

(firm voice, unwavering):
—Let’s make a deal.

She raised the vinyl a little higher.

—I give this to you… and your cat lives. You let us walk away.

Lira stared at her.
Didn’t blink.

—Hand it over and release her.
(Pause, her tone venomous)
—And you get to live one more day. You have my word.

Caliop nodded—
and tossed the vinyl.

It landed in the snow.
One of Lira’s men grabbed it quickly.

Ivan didn’t wait.

He jumped into the cab, thick hands gripping the wheel,
his boot slamming the gas.

Nikkita roared.

Caliop leapt onto the back.

Dagmar, casting one last defiant glance at Lira, let go of the cat—
and sprang after her.

The military truck jolted forward, plowing through snow and mud with brutal force.

Lira remained still, watching as Nikkita’s silhouette vanished into the endless taiga.

The deal was done.

But in her eyes, reflected in the headlights, there was something else.

This wasn’t over.

The old military truck rattled to a halt in front of Viktor’s garage, its engine letting out one final metallic cough before shutting down for good—
like a war beast spent after battle.

At the door, arms crossed and wearing a satisfied grin, Viktor watched the scene unfold with the patience of a man who’s seen too much.

VIKTOR (laughing with satisfaction):
—Old Nikkita always comes home.

The truck door flew open.
Ivan jumped down, cursing in Russian under his breath.
He exchanged a few quick, gruff words with Viktor—
his tone as sharp and grumpy as only someone who's spent the day in a hell of snow and bullets could sound.
Then, without saying goodbye, he marched into the house, leaving behind a trail of heavy footprints in the snow.

From the back of the truck, Caliop dropped to the ground.
Soaked, muddy, hair stuck to her face, she looked like someone who’d had far too long a day.

VIKTOR (raising an eyebrow, casually):
—Ivan’s not happy. Says you had trouble.

Caliop barely looked at him.
She brushed off her clothes pointlessly and replied in a voice full of exhaustion and irritation:

CALIÓP:
—Three words: hot shower. Now.

Without another word, she stormed toward the house, leaving a trail of water and mud in her wake.

Max tried to climb down, but his muscles screamed in protest.
As his feet hit the ground, he wobbled and nearly collapsed.
Dagmar, ever loyal, jumped down after him, watching with quiet concern.

Viktor eyed him for a moment, sizing him up with one raised brow.
Then—without warning—he burst into a deep, belly-shaking laugh, clutching his sides like it was the funniest thing he’d seen in years.

VIKTOR (wiping a tear, voice still cracking):
—Come on, I haven’t got all day! I’ll be inside. We need to talk.
I hope the gear survived… because if not—higher price.

With that warning, he turned and disappeared into the house.

Max watched his back for a moment, resigned, then looked at Dagmar—
who returned the glance with that same calm, knowing expression of someone who’s seen it all.

MAX (sighing, with a crooked smile):
—I’m getting too old for this, buddy.

Dagmar wagged his tail slightly, as if he understood the joke,
and the two of them made their way toward the warmth of the house.