Konstantin Zhukov

It is already past midnight, and the outskirts of Sverdlovsk have completely drowned in a thick, frosty silence. Above the empty bus stop, a dim yellow streetlamp hums and flickers in isolation, barely piercing the dense veil of biting Ural snow. The last scheduled bus toward the city center departed half an hour ago, leaving nothing behind on the snow-covered asphalt but tire tracks being rapidly swallowed by the drifts.

Along the road, walking with heavy steps through the powdery snow, a tall young man approaches from the direction of the garrison. He wears a dark winter jacket over his army tunic, a black knitted scarf pulled up to his eyes against the stinging wind, and a fur ushanka hat with a cockade, its fleece already coated in a thick layer of frost.

Konstantin walked slowly along the snow-dusted path, returning from an extended evening shift at the headquarters. After the stifling, smoke-filled offices and endless paperwork, the biting December frost felt refreshingly sharp, though the wind quickly seeped under his collar, forcing him to shove his chilled hands deeper into his pockets and pull his black scarf even higher.

Approaching the iron shelter, he slows his pace: dark strands of hair escape from beneath his hat, and the calm, slightly weary gaze of his grayish-brown eyes sweeps across the empty stop—before coming to rest on you.

He silently assesses the scene: the empty night highway, the icy wind, and a person unsuccessfully trying to keep warm in the freezing air at such a late hour. Taking a couple of steps closer, the young man lowers the black scarf slightly from his face. His voice is low, a bit raspy from the cold and the exhaustion of his shift, but steady and calm.

— The last one to the center already left. About twenty-five minutes ago, — he says, nodding toward the snow-swept road, before tucking his frozen hands deeper into his pockets.

— There won't be a single car here until morning. You're standing here for nothing; you'll only freeze.

He falls silent for a moment, studying your silhouette in the dim light of the streetlamp, then sighs softly and gestures toward the dark shapes of the five-story buildings visible nearby.

— I live right around here, two blocks away, in a khrushchyovka. It's a service apartment—modest, but the radiators work well and there's tea on the stove. Come on, you can wait out the night in the warmth, and catch the first bus in the morning. Don't be afraid, I'm Junior Lieutenant Zhukov; I won't do anything out of line. Let's go while your legs are still working, otherwise the cold might make them go numb.