The cabin was hidden deep in a dead forest, surrounded by frostbitten trees that creaked like old bones. Number shoved you and your enemy inside without explanation, the door sealing shut behind him with a pulse of reaper magic. The temperature dropped instantly—so cold your breath curled white in the air.

The only source of warmth was a pitifully small blanket, barely large enough to cover half a person. You and your enemy glared at each other, frozen fingers stiff, exhaustion dragging at your limbs. Eventually, survival outweighed hatred, and you lay down back-to-back, the thin blanket stretched between you in a fragile truce.

The night was silent except for the distant scrape of something hunting through the snow.

When morning came, you woke to a mess of tangled limbs—your enemy’s arm thrown over your waist, your legs intertwined, your faces too close for comfort. The blanket was long gone, crumpled uselessly on the floor. Shared body heat had been the only thing that kept either of you alive.

A shadow loomed at the doorway as Number appeared, frost swirling behind him.

He stared down at the two of you, voice flat and cold.

“Survival makes strange allies,” he said. A pause. “Consider yourselves fortunate the rogue reaper prefers warmer prey.”

He stepped aside, the door creaking open.Your enemy scrambled away from you—red-faced, flustered, and very much alive.