The frigid air of Vesker bit through Tazya’s threadbare coat, a constant reminder of the city’s indifferent grip. The wind, sharp with the metallic tang of distant factories, whipped strands of hair across her face as they stepped onto the crumbling flagstones of Canal House 43. It was worse than she’d imagined, far worse than Matron Kaelan’s laconic description had suggested. The facade showed years of neglect, its brickwork patched with scab-like mortar and pockmarked by soot. A single casement, directly beside the heavy, splintered front door, yawned open, its pane shattered into jagged teeth. But the real blow came as Havel unlatched the door and pushed it inward. A blast of unheated, stale air reeking of damp plaster and old dust engulfed them. Beyond the threshold, the entrance hall led to what must have been a central living space, except the ceiling had collapsed entirely in one corner, leaving a gaping wound to the bleak, overcast sky. A pile of roof timbers, splintered laths, and cracked tile lay like a forgotten tomb in the middle of the room, coated in a fine layer of snow. Zenia, pale and shivering despite the extra scarf wrapped around her neck, gasped. “Tazya, the roof!” Her voice was thin, reedy. The optimism that usually flickered in her eyes was momentarily snuffed out by the sheer desolation. Tazya’s shoulders hunched. This wasn't a ‘fixer-upper’; it was a ruin. The Board had truly delivered them to the wolves. She cast a glance at Havel, expecting a similar grimace of dismay, but his face remained impassive, his gaze already sweeping the damage, calculating. His practicality felt like a deliberate insult to her rising panic. “It’s untenable for Zenia,” Tazya stated, her voice tight, a thin wire stretched taut. “We can’t stay here. She’ll freeze.” Havel merely turned, his eyes fixed on the shattered casement near the front door. “The fractured pane will let in more wind than the roof hole in a few hours. We address what we can immediately.” He began to shrug off his coat, revealing the precise folds of his grey work shirt beneath. “I’ll do it,” Tazya snapped, already moving towards the frame. “You tend to Zenia.” She didn’t want his help, didn’t want to owe him another moment of his cold, efficient presence. She saw a shard of glass still clinging precariously to the frame, glinting like a fanged tooth. If she could just pry it out, she could at least nail a scrap of canvas over the hole. She reached for it, her fingers clumsy with cold and a surging anger that made her hands tremble. “Wait,” Havel said, his voice flat, but she ignored him, a furious defiance burning in her chest. She yanked at the glass, her grip sliding on the slick surface. The shard resisted, then suddenly gave way, slicing a jagged line across her palm with sickening ease. A sharp, stinging pain lanced through her hand, hot and immediate. Bright scarlet bloomed against her pale skin, welling up from the cut. She gasped, clutching her hand to her chest, the pain a fresh betrayal. The wound was deeper than she expected, a raw, angry gash that pulsed with every beat of her heart. Havel was beside her in an instant, his movements swift and silent. He didn't ask if she was alright. He didn't offer sympathy. Instead, his gaze was clinical, assessing the damage. “Idiot,” he murmured, not unkindly, but with a weary exasperation that grated on her nerves. He pulled a clean, white handkerchief from his inner coat pocket – meticulously folded, of course – and unwrapped it. His fingers, steady and deft, took her injured hand firmly. The contrast between the cold precision of his touch and the sudden warmth of her blood felt stark. He pressed the cloth against the wound, applying pressure, then began to fold it with an accountant’s exactness, turning it into a makeshift bandage. His proximity was sudden, unexpected, and utterly disorienting. She could feel the faint warmth radiating from his body, smell the clean scent of starch and cold air that clung to him. His thumb brushed over her wrist as he secured the knot, a feather-light touch that sent an involuntary shiver through her, not of cold, but of something unsettlingly intimate. “Hold it there,” he instructed, his eyes still on her hand, then flicked up to meet hers. For a fleeting second, the cold pragmatism in his gaze seemed to soften, a flicker of something unreadable, before it hardened again. “Now, while you’re out of commission, I will address the glass. Zenia, there’s an old tool chest by the back wall, in the shadow of the collapsed corner. See if you can find anything useful.” Zenia, small frame already accustomed to foraging for necessities, ventured towards the dark recesses of the room. She was usually quiet, preferring the company of her books, but the challenge of their new, dire circumstances seemed to awaken a practical streak. Tazya watched Havel begin to carefully pry loose the remaining glass shards, his movements slow and deliberate, precise to a fault. He moved as if calculating a column of figures, each action weighted and necessary. The wind howled through the new gap, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and distant factory smoke. Zenia’s voice, a small, excited gasp, cut through the desolate silence. “Tazya! Havel! Look what I found!” She knelt by a section of loose floorboards near the base of the crumbling chimney, dirt smudging her pale chin. She had pulled up a couple of planks, revealing a hollow beneath. From the darkness, she extracted a heavy, tarnished object: a small, battered metal box with a snapped antenna and a scattering of intricate dials. It was clearly a piece of old military communication equipment, a field radio, long since defunct. “A radio?” Tazya asked, startled. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would hide such a thing here. It was useless, certainly, but a strange find nonetheless. Zenia clutched it to her chest, a spark of her usual bright optimism returning. “It’s broken, but… I think I can fix it. Like Papa used to fix things. Maybe…” Her voice trailed off, but her eyes held a secret, hopeful light. The promise of purpose, however small, glimmered in the desolation. For a moment, the chill in the room seemed to lessen, replaced by the faint, fragile warmth of her sister’s unexpected discovery. Tazya looked from Zenia, cradling the salvaged transmitter like a forgotten treasure, to Havel, methodically nailing a strip of tarpaulin over the gaping frame. The cut on her hand throbbed, a dull ache beneath the pressure of Havel’s precise bandage. They were strangers, bound by desperation, forced into a hollow pretense, and yet… there was a strange, almost domestic rhythm beginning to form in the decaying house. Zenia, with her quiet hope, and Havel, with his methodical, unyielding practicality. And Tazya, fiercely defensive, caught between them, trying to hold her world together with bleeding hands and a stubborn, unyielding will. A sudden, deafening pounding erupted from the front door, rattling the splintered wood and echoing through the ruined house like a gunshot. Three sharp, violent blows, insistent and loud. Havel froze, his hammer paused mid-air. Zenia gasped, dropping the radio with a clatter onto the floorboards. Tazya froze. It was too early. Far too early for the Ration Inspector.