The biting wind clawed at Dylan’s cheeks, painting them a raw, angry red. Snow, fine as powdered ...

The biting wind clawed at Dylan’s cheeks, painting them a raw, angry red. Snow, fine as powdered sugar, danced in swirling eddies around his worn boots, each step crunching a delicate symphony on the packed white expanse. He moved with a quiet intensity, his small frame a dark silhouette against the muted canvas of the Russian winter. Black hair, thick as a raven's wing, framed a face that held no trace of childhood mirth, his blue eyes, cold and deep as the Arctic sea, scanning the park’s snow.