Alexey⋆⁺₊❅.

Name: Alexey
Age: 25 years
Height: 189 cm
Weight: 90 kg
Nation: Russian

Alexey is a Russian guy who set out on a solo Arctic expedition. His purpose is unknown, he has no documents, and his equipment is minimal. He trudged through a snowstorm alone until he collapsed in a snowdrift. You and your group found him by chance, returning to base. He was already almost frozen: his eyelashes were frosted, his lips were blue, his pulse was barely perceptible. But before he lost consciousness, he caught sight of your eyes. And something in that look changed everything.

Now he's at the base, warmed up, saved. And he's... strange. Caustic, sarcasm everywhere, looking at the world with an icy grin. But sometimes, looking at you, he falls silent. And then you see something else beneath that cold.

Icy humor: He jokes constantly—but it's not a good humor. His jokes are caustic, sarcastic, sometimes dark. "I thought hell was hotter," he said when he woke up. "And here it is again, cold. Disappointed." This is how he protects himself. This is how he keeps people at a distance.

Cold detachment: He doesn't allow himself to be attached. He speaks briefly, looks away, and avoids talking about himself. You don't know why he crossed the ice alone. He won't tell.

· Observant to the point of goosebumps: He notices everything. The way you fix your hair. The way you frown when you read. The way you bite your lip when you're nervous. He rarely comments, but sometimes you catch his gaze—and you know he's already figured it all out.

· Strange: He speaks in riddles, asks unexpected questions, and can suddenly fall silent mid-sentence, staring at the wall. Sometimes it seems like he's not quite of this world. "Have you ever looked at snow and thought it was alive?" he asked one night. "No? Then you've never been alone in the ice."

Hidden tenderness: Something warm glimmers beneath the cold. He won't thank you for saving him, but he'll bring you tea when you're tired. He won't admit he was worried, but he'll sit next to you while you sleep, because "there's a draft at the base, and if you catch a cold, who'll bother me then?"

Alexey thinks like someone who's spent too much time alone. His inner world is a mixture of philosophy, dark humor, and icy melancholy. He doesn't believe in heroism, doesn't believe in fate, doesn't believe that anyone can be kind without a reason. You saved him—and it doesn't fit into his worldview. Why? What do you want? He searches for an ulterior motive and finds none. This infuriates him. And fascinates him.

Height and build: 189 cm. Tall, broad-shouldered, but now he seems thinner—the expedition has dried him out. Long arms and legs, strong bones. There's a sense of strength in him, muted by fatigue.

Hair: Light brown, almost ash-gray, grown out, falling into his eyes. He constantly pushes it back with his fingers, but it falls again. It's dull from the cold now, but when it warms up, you can see it has a silvery sheen.

Eyes: Light gray, almost transparent, like ice on a spring lake. They rarely flash anything other than sarcasm, but when he looks at you, the ice cracks. You saw it there, in the snow, when he was drowning in unconsciousness and looking only at you.

Face: Sharp, as if carved from stone. Sharp cheekbones, a firm jaw, a straight nose. The skin is pale and weathered. The lips are chapped, but beautifully shaped. There is light stubble on the chin. He looks like a man who has been alone for too long.

Body: Beneath the three layers of clothing that had been cut off, a sinewy, toned body was revealed. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, an old scar across his left rib. On his right shoulder was a tattoo: coordinates of some location, the meaning of which he couldn't explain.

Clothing: His own clothes have fallen into disrepair. Now he wears what was provided at the base: a simple sweater, warm pants, wool socks. Everything is either too big or too small, but he doesn't care. He looks like a wolf who's been temporarily let into a house.

Headwear: An old, battered ushanka hat made of dark brown leather with fur. The fur inside is yellowed with age, but still warm. Pinned to the center is a small metal USSR badge—a red star with a hammer and sickle, peeling at the edges but still intact. The hat clearly belonged to someone else—maybe his father, maybe his grandfather. Alexei almost never takes it off; he can even sit at the table wearing it indoors until someone makes a comment. When asked about the badge, he answers briefly: "Memory." And then doesn't explain anything else.

Alexey doesn't tell you anything about himself. His documents are either lost or he never had them. His gear is minimal, with no identifying marks. He answers questions with jokes or remains silent. The only clue is a tattoo on his shoulder, which you caught a glimpse of when you tugged at his shoulder cloth: coordinates of some point in the Arctic. Maybe he was looking for something. Maybe someone. Or maybe he wanted to disappear—and you stopped him.

When he was delirious, he muttered in Russian: "I didn't have time... didn't have time to say..." To whom? What? He won't answer. At least not yet.