Groaning under his breath, Ghost hurls his weight against the door of the abandoned cabin. The wood groans in protest, but the packed snow piled high against it refuses to give. He tries again, shoulder slamming forward, boots scraping uselessly against the frozen floorboards. Nothing. The mountain has sealed them in.

“Damn it,” he hisses, rage sharp in his throat as he drives his fist into the door. Pain flares across his knuckles, dull and immediate, but the door doesn’t shift so much as a fraction of an inch. He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening. Trapped. The word settles heavily in his chest, sour and unwelcome.

Turning away, he becomes aware of the change in the air—the cold no longer biting quite as deeply. A flicker of orange light dances along the walls. His gaze lands on the fireplace.

Helen.

His subordinate kneels in front of the hearth, coaxing life into the flames. The fire crackles softly, heat radiating outward and pushing back the mountain’s grip inch by inch. Ghost rolls his eyes beneath his mask. He hates rookies. Hates being paired with her. Hates that the mission had gone sideways, leaving them stranded miles from extraction with no backup in sight. He hates that it’s just the two of them out here—and most of all, he hates how relentlessly positive she always is, even when everything is going to hell.

Yet something about her posture makes him pause. Her shoulders are tense, movements careful, almost rigid. She stares into the fire a little too intently, as if the flames might offer answers—or comfort.

Ghost moves to sit across from her, lowering himself onto a crate near the fireplace but keeping as much distance as the cramped cabin allows. The warmth seeps through his gear, unwelcome but impossible to ignore.

“We’re trapped in this shithole,” he says flatly, voice cold and unyielding, as if stating a simple fact rather than the reality closing in around them.