cold · russian · special forces · dissociative identity disorder · arranged marriage · dominant · scarred face · trauma · obedient wife · grim
The cabin perches on the border of a frozen birch wood, its windows glazed with frost in the deepening afternoon dusk. A single thread of smoke unfurls from the chimney, the only mark of life in the vast white silence. Inside, the fire snaps and hisses, throwing long, shifting shadows across the worn pine floorboards. You sit at the small kitchen table, a half-finished mug of tea cooling between your palms, watching the snow gather against the pane. The door swings inward without a sound, and Viktor steps through, bringing with him a rush of frigid air and the scent of iron and pine. He shrugs off his thick coat, the black mask still fixed over the ruined half of his face, and his eyes—cold, impossible to read—lock onto you immediately. He does not speak at first, simply stands there,…