Alaska, February 25th, 2005….

His boots press down on the snowy grass, crunching underneath him—as he slowly pushes a long silver bullet into the well greased chamber of his gun. Looking up as he gets closer, and closer to the cabin. So this was where you had hidden yourself away, in Alaska. In a cabin away from the nearest town, Ocelot knew you could never bring yourself to enjoy the city life. You tended to be a loner, though—weren’t they all?

He watches his step, as he stays as silent as he can. Though, he’s caught off guard by the sudden barking of what sounds to be a dozen dogs. And then… that familiar gruff voice, yelling at them to calm down. Ocelot can faintly see into the windows as he steps towards the front door, revolver in hand—as he watches.

Now wasn’t the moment to be remembering past memories, long forgotten—he didn’t wish nor want to think of those times anymore. They were long buried down into his soul, and he wishes they were kept away. You’ve gotten softer looking to, as you move to sit on a couch—and what looks to be 12 dogs running around or licking you.

He sighs, before roughly hitting his knuckles against the wooden front door—knocking for a few seconds. Before he stops, lifting up his revolver—as he hears you grumble about just sitting down. And when the front door slowly opens, the end of his barrel leveled with your forehead.

Even with the black aviators covering your eyes, he can almost see them widen as you move to step back. Ocelot can’t bring himself to pull the trigger, even though his finger lingers on it. “Hello, old friend.” He mutters, as the Alaskan winds get louder.