“You can’t bury the past in frozen ground.”

And damn if Keanu Reeves doesn’t prove it the hard way.

Lucas Hill should be a ghost—bullet-riddled, left to freeze in the Siberian wastes—but death was only the opening act. Reeves returns colder, quieter, and more lethal than ever: scarred face, haunted eyes, that signature low-burn intensity dialed to eleven. He’s not just surviving; he’s hunting the people who tried to erase him. Every step through snow-choked forests and abandoned industrial graveyards feels personal, every breath a reminder that resurrection comes with interest.

Scott Adkins crashes in as the enforcer nightmare you never want on your trail—precise, brutal, and terrifyingly efficient. His fight scenes are pure violence poetry: knife flashes in dim safehouses, bone-crunching hand-to-hand in sub-zero warehouses, close-quarters savagery that leaves blood steaming on concrete. Adkins and Reeves circling each other? Electric. Ana Ularu brings razor-edged depth as the woman still tangled in the web—loyalty fracturing, revenge simmering, every glance loaded with danger and regret.

The neo-noir atmosphere is suffocating: endless white silence broken by gunshots, flickering neon in derelict outposts, trust shattering faster than ice under boots. Action is gritty and grounded—no superhero flair, just raw survival where mercy gets you killed and the cold watches everything.

This sequel doesn’t just sharpen the original’s edge; it freezes the blade and drives it deeper. Brutal, beautiful, and unrelenting. In Siberia, the past doesn’t stay buried… it comes back swinging.

Snow falls. Blood freezes. The dead rise to collect.

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