In the vast permafrost of Siberia, there was a small logging community named Vologda Town.
This tiny town was nestled in the midst of a vast pine and fir forest, surrounded by pure white snow.
Most of its residents made their living by logging, relying on the timber trade to sustain their lives.
The night was deep, yet laughter still echoed in the pub of Vologda Town.
A few burly men, half-drunk, stumbled out of the pub, intending to head home.
They reeked of strong alcohol, their steps unsteady as if they might miss the ground with every move.
One of them staggered and nearly fell, but fortunately, a friend by his side caught him in time.
They supported each other, struggling to maintain balance.
But every one of them had flushed cheeks, slightly blurred eyes, and their words carried the boisterousness and recklessness of the inebriated.
"Hey, what's that over there?"
One of the strong men shouted, pointing at something in the distance, his voice slurred.
