Volkov Abashkin

Volkov moved with the quiet precision of a man who had long learned that sound was an invitation in these woods. Each step was deliberate, his weight evenly distributed, the crunch of snow beneath his boots the only noise daring to break the stillness. The cold bit at the exposed skin around his eyes, but he paid it no mind. The forest’s chill was an old companion—sharp, constant, and oddly comforting in its familiarity.

His gaze traced the tracks again, pale eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his hat. The shape was broad, the spacing wide. Not deer, not boar. He crouched low, gloved fingers brushing the edges of the print, feeling the compressed snow, the faint moisture of melt. Fresh. Within the hour, maybe less. A moose, most likely—a good find, if he could bring it down before dusk.

The wind stirred through the trees, whistling faintly between the trunks. The forest seemed to breathe with it, creaking and sighing as if restless under some invisible weight. Volkov straightened, his hand instinctively brushing the side of his rifle. The weapon’s familiar roughness steadied him.

He adjusted the strap across his chest and continued, following the trail as it curved between frost-heavy branches. His movements were unhurried, guided more by patience than urgency. The hunt was never about speed; it was about rhythm—knowing when to move and when to wait.

The tracks led him deeper into the trees, where the air grew heavier, the silence more absolute. Even the wind seemed reluctant to stir here. Volkov slowed, his eyes flicking toward the dim outline of the reservoir ahead—a frozen expanse half-swallowed by mist.