The snow had been falling without pause since morning.

  Streets and buildings had lost their distinction, submerged in a sea of white that muffled the world like a heavy shroud.

  Only the tracks of passing vehicles remained, leaving behind mounds of slush where black earth and dust mingled with the crushed snow.

  A brutal wind, sweeping in from the depths of Siberia,

  sliced through the December air, turning every breath into a shard of ice that froze the lungs.

  By 6:00 PM, the city surrendered its life. Footsteps vanished, replaced by a stillness so absolute the air itself seemed to stop flowing.

  The freezing gusts carried the acrid scent of gunpowder and the metallic tang of cold shell casings.

  As dawn neared, the city slept fitfully, harboring a faint but unmistakable stench of blood.

  For five years, the city had been systematically dismantled by missiles and intermittent drone strikes from Nation R.

  The ruins of buildings stood like patches of thinning hair, jagged and skeletal.

  In the early days, the domestic air defense systems could intercept most of the incoming fire, but time had eroded that shield.

  Faced with advanced missiles and saturation strikes, the defense network had crumbled.

  Now, the city took every hit defenseless.

  A deep, suffocating melancholy hung over the citizens.

  Many had fled across the borders; those who remained were few.

  Soldiers guarding their motherland, the elderly who could not leave,

  and a handful of stubborn residents lived day by day in hollowed-out apartments, surviving on sheer endurance.

  Kelensky could not find sleep until midnight.

  The operational briefings and debates over the nation's future had been gnawing at his sanity all afternoon.

  In the face of pure terror and the weight of an imminent decision, sleep felt like a forbidden luxury.

  He moved his location daily to evade the enemy's eyes.

  During the day, his security detail blended into the crowds to scout the next safe house; at sunset, the President would vanish into another nondescript apartment.

  The clock crawled toward midnight. Sitting at a desk in the corner of the room,

  Kelensky clutched his head before burying his face in his hands.

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  "Ah... what should I do? Is there truly no way out?"

  A short, ragged sigh escaped his lips.

  His gaze drifted to a Bible and a weathered stamp album resting on the corner of the desk.

  Philately had been his hobby since childhood.

  Peering at those tiny scraps of paper through a magnifying glass was the only way he could disconnect from a world at war.

  it was the smallest, most precious joy allowed to him.

  He reached out, slowly opening the album.

  His eyes landed on a specific stamp—an image of the biblical David.

  He stared at it for a long time in silence.

  The small face printed on the aged paper seemed to stare back at him with a strange intensity.

  Finally, he closed the album and lay down on the bed.

  He closed his eyes, but sleep remained elusive. Outside,

  the snow continued to fall, and the city braced itself for another long night.

  The apartment was a relic of the Soviet era.

  Its gray concrete bore the weight of history grim, but solid.

  The structure had weathered both time and bombardment, standing defiant. Double-paned windows and thick walls kept the biting winter wind at bay.

  Currently, it served as a student dormitory, a fact that provided the perfect camouflage.

  Parts of the exterior had been torn away by shell impacts, exposing the concrete "flesh" beneath, with ice seeping into the cracks.

  No one would imagine the head of state was huddling inside such a dilapidated shell. That very insignificance was his sanctuary.

  Past midnight, after much tossing and turning, Kelensky finally fell into a deep slumber.

  At that moment, a bizarre phenomenon occurred in the air above the apartment.

  Like a ripple striking the atmosphere, a white wind swirled into a small vortex before narrowing into a thin, ghostly stream.

  It flowed noiselessly through the exterior wall, penetrating the solid concrete without resistance, and seeped into the room.

  The wind began to reshape itself.

  It condensed and contracted until it was a speck smaller than a mosquito.

  Then, it took the form of a needle-like object,

  about the length of a thumb and thin as a thread. Defying gravity, it hovered in mid-air, vibrating minutely.

  This needle-like presence drifted toward Kelensky’s bed. It stopped just above his ear,

  barely touching the skin of his temple. From its tip,

  a faint, pale-yellow current of electricity began to flow into his mind.

  Kelensky began to dream.

  A man stood in the center of the living room.

  He wore a crisp, tailored suit and a neatly tied blue necktie. He was not of this country;

  he was clearly East Asian.

  Though a stranger, there was a strange lack of hostility about him.

  The man sat quietly at Kelensky’s desk.

  In his hands was the stamp album.

  The man flipped through the pages slowly, pausing to look at one in particular.

  From his pocket, he pulled a card as thin and stiff as a wedding invitation.

  He opened it to reveal a single stamp.

  He removed it with care and tucked it into a vacant slot in Kelensky’s album.

  Only then did the man look up at Kelensky.

  His gaze was calm, his voice low and resonant.

  “Mr. President. This is a dream, yet it is also reality.

  I possess the power to protect you and your nation.”

  Kelensky was paralyzed, unable to utter a word.

  “Grant me command of the current combat zones for just twenty-four hours.

  During that time, your territory will be held.

  Think of me as a mercenary, if you wish.”

  The man paused, tapping the album lightly.

  “When you wake, check the stamp I have left behind. Tomorrow, I will come to find you.

  The stamp will tell you the time of our meeting.”

  With those words, the space dissolved into darkness.

  The room and the man blurred into nothingness.

  Kelensky felt as if he were floating a sensation of being sucked into a vacuum of zero gravity.

  Yet, there was no fear.

  He drifted back into a profound sleep.

  At 5:00 AM, Kelensky opened his eyes.

  His head was remarkably clear, and his body felt light, as if he had rested for the first time in years.

  To wake up in such a state without the aid of sedatives was alien to him.

  For five years, the act of sleeping and waking had been a form of torture like falling asleep in a suffocating log sauna only to be thrown naked into the snow the next morning.

  But this morning was different. An inexplicable peace lingered in his limbs.

  And the dream was vivid terrifyingly so.

  Kelensky climbed out of bed and walked to the desk.

  He picked up the stamp album next to the Bible.

  His fingertips trembled.

  Taking a deep breath, he slowly peeled open the cover.

  The moment he turned the page, his entire body froze.

  A jolt of lightning-like electricity raced down his spine.