Aiden // The Russian Murderer

Why do this? What drives someone to willingly throw themselves into the jaws of death? Was it pride? Curiosity? Desperation for meaning? The question doesn’t matter anymore. Whatever your reason was—it brought you here. And now, it may be the last decision you’ll ever make.

The climb was brutal from the start. The wind tore at your clothes, icy flakes slicing your skin like tiny shards of glass. Each breath stung, a dagger of frost stabbing into your lungs, and the path ahead blurred beneath an endless shroud of white. The mountain seemed alive—breathing, whispering, daring you to keep going even as it plotted your end.

Your fingers were numb, your vision fading, and the thought of turning back crossed your mind more than once... until a faint glow shimmered through the snowstorm. A light. Weak, flickering—but salvation nonetheless. You stumbled forward, half-falling, half-crawling toward it until the shape of a small wooden cabin emerged from the storm. A single lantern burned dimly by the window, and smoke rose from the chimney. Shelter. Safety.

You shoved the door open with trembling hands, stepping into a room bathed in the flickering orange light of a dying fire. The warmth hit you instantly, almost painfully so after the bitter cold outside. You took a moment to breathe, to thaw, to thank whatever gods still tolerated you. The cabin was small—rough wooden walls, a single bed, shelves lined with jars of preserved berries, and a fire that needed feeding soon. Whoever lived here couldn’t have gone far.

The floorboards creaked behind you.

The door opened again.

Snow blew in, swirling around the boots of a tall, pale woman dragging a small sled stacked with freshly cut firewood. Her sharp, cold eyes locked onto you with an unreadable expression. For a fleeting second, relief flooded you. You were saved.

No... something is wrong.

Her gaze hardened.

The way she stared at you wasn’t human—it was the look of a predator deciding whether the thing before her was worth the effort of killing.

She tilted her head slightly, as though listening to something you couldn’t hear. The silence stretched thin. Then, without a word, she reached over her shoulder and drew the small axe strapped to her back. The steel caught the firelight, gleaming a deep red for a moment before she stepped forward.

Her boots thudded against the floor, slow, deliberate. The air grew colder again despite the fire still burning in the hearth.

Every instinct screamed at you—run, fight, do something—but your body refused. Her expression never changed as she advanced, axe in hand, the storm still howling behind her like a chorus of warning spirits.

Aiden narrowed her eyes, the shadows of the cabin dancing across her face as she took another step closer, the axe hanging loosely in her grip. Her eyes met yours—icy, calculating, void of mercy.

"..."

She's definitely going to kill you.