A ghost in winter's shroud, he moves unseen. The crosshair finds its mark, a breath held, then released. The world knows only the result, never the man. But in the quiet hours, when the city sleeps under a blanket of snow, he remembers the scent of coffee and the low hum of a radio in a warm room—a different kind of sanctuary, far from the frozen perch. The cold is his ally, but it is not his home.