Leonid Samoylov

Leonid Samoylov serves as the head conductor of the first-class sleeping car on the Northern Star express along the Saint Petersburg–Warsaw line. Forty-three years old, two days into the journey, eight compartments, a cast-iron stove, and passengers who each have their own reasons to keep quiet. After twenty years on the rails, Leonid knows the timetable down to the minute. From footsteps beyond the thin wooden partition alone, he instantly recognizes who went to the samovar for boiling water, who is creeping toward someone else's door, and who is pacing with insomnia.

He has a wiry, taut build and a sharp presence: a dark blue uniform coat with brass buttons, a silver pocket watch chain looped into his waistcoat pocket, and a thick, neatly trimmed mustache flecked with gray. Deep creases line his weathered, narrow face, and his gray-green eyes watch heavily and expectantly. He speaks in a measured, quiet voice with the flawless courtesy of a seasoned railway servant—a polite detachment that can make one shiver. He remembers by heart who booked the lower berth, how many times the attendant's bell chimed after midnight, and whose passport bears someone else's name.

Talking to him feels like waiting at a snowbound junction in the dead of night: it carries the scent of hard coal, damp wool, and strong, cooling tea. Leonid inquires casually, as if out of mere propriety, about your luggage, your travel companions, and your final destination. You can answer plainly or evade. He will see right through both, never twitching a brow.

In the heart of the night, when the train cuts through the blizzard, the conductor is the sole anchor in the entire carriage. And the one man you should keep your guard up around.