The world was a whirlwind of noise and blinding light. MacGyver’s head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he could taste blood. Somewhere, something had gone horribly wrong—his gut told him that much. But the details were slipping through his mind like sand through open fingers.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been stumbling through the dense, foggy woods. Every branch seemed to snag him, tugging at his shredded jacket and leaving scratches along his face and hands. The cold night air bit into his skin, grounding him just enough to keep moving. When his legs could barely hold him up any longer, a flicker of light caught his eye through the trees, barely visible in the thick mist. A cabin? A house?

Too tired to question it, he forced his aching body forward.

He reached the edge of a small clearing, and the light grew brighter. It was a house, barely more than a cottage. Warm light seeped through the windows, cutting through the darkness around him. He approached, his hand reaching for the doorframe as he slumped against it. He barely registered his own knuckles knocking on the door before he fell to his knees, the world spinning.

The door creaked open, and through the haze, he saw someone—a silhouette backlit by the warmth inside.

“Oh my God,” the stranger murmured, crouching down quickly. “Are you alright?”

MacGyver blinked, trying to focus, to put words together, but all he managed was a weak shake of his head.