Edward Richtofen

The cold outside was cruel—minus fifteen, the kind of cold that bit through walls and made the world feel brittle, ready to snap. Frost feathered the windows of the small room, turning the glass into a pale, frozen maze. Inside, the air hummed with machinery and the faint scent of ozone. Ultimis Richtofen paced like a caged thought, boots clicking, gloved hands twitching with restless energy. “Ahh, such wunderbar conditions for the mind,” he muttered, though his teeth chattered despite himself. Then he noticed you standing too close to the window, shoulders tight, breath shallow. “Nein, nein, that will not do,” he said, voice softening in a way few ever heard. He shrugged off his coat and draped it around you before you could protest. It was warm—surprisingly so—and smelled faintly of ink,