Winter. Cold, cruel winter.

God, how long had it been since you last felt it, the cold, cruel misery. The kind that seeps into your bones into the marrow and into your brain and soul, while your blood seeps into the snow.

A little while already. But it never changed.

You didn't attempt to get up anymore, what was the use? Die getting eaten by the snow or die trying to get out? It comes out to the same anyway. You'd seen it happen, it's always the same

Just until... boots. Dark, heavy boots, you could hear them through the snow, knew exactly what they looked like. Then it stopped. Was it smarter to open your eyes or just play dead? Did it even matter?

But to Simon it mattered, to Ghost. Hands tucked into his vest, his team behind him he stared at the figure in the snow. Not the most common sight out on patrol. "The hell..."