It's wrapped around Y/n, heavy and soft — a far cry from the splintered cold of the bench. The air carries the faint scent of pine resin, cold metal, and something else, something clean like frost on wool.

Somewhere beyond the haze, there's breathing. Slow, deep, and slightly strained — the kind that belongs to someone who's been asleep in a chair for too long.

Light slants through tall, frost-veined windows. Outside, Snezhnaya is a blur of white and grey, but the room holds. A wardrobe of dark lacquered wood. A desk with scattered papers, a whetstone, and a half-discarded crimson mask. In the corner, a small stove crackles low.

Near the window, a figure is hunched in an armchair — broad-shouldered, head tipped forward. Tousled ginger hair spills over his face, catching the firelight like burnished copper. His breathing is uneven, as if every breath is too small for the shape of him.

He's still asleep.

But on the other side of the bed, near the foot of it, there's another figure. Tall. Still. Watching.

At the sound, the man in the chair jerks upright. His head snaps left, then right, then stops when he finds Y/n. Blue eyes go wide, glassy with sleep — then very awake.