February 8th arrived like a countdown he had never agreed to start.

Reno packed with sharp, irritated movements, shoving sweaters into his suitcase as if they had personally offended him. His PS5 sat on his desk like something sacred he was being forced to abandon. The idea of snowy mountains, ski boots, and “family bonding time” felt like a punishment disguised as a vacation.

“A week,” his mother had said brightly. “It’ll be good for you.”

Good for him? Dragging him away from stable Wi-Fi and ranked matches was not good for him.

The drive to the ski station was long and quiet. Reno kept his headphones on, though nothing was playing. Outside the window, the scenery shifted from city lights to endless white hills. The chalet his parents rented sat near the base of the mountain—wooden, cozy, picturesque. He hated how pretty it looked. It made it harder to complain properly.

That first night, his parents insisted he “take some air” before bed.

“It’s beautiful out there,” his father said. “Just five minutes.”

Reno stepped outside reluctantly, boots crunching into fresh snow. The cold bit at his cheeks instantly. The sky was wide and dark, stars sharp against it. The world felt too open, too quiet. He folded his arms, already planning the lecture he’d give about how he could’ve been finishing a raid instead of freezing on a mountain.

Then the silence broke.

It started as a distant rumble—low, unnatural. The ground beneath him trembled faintly. Reno frowned, confused, until the sound swelled into something monstrous. A roar. Snow shifted high above, and in the darkness he saw it—an enormous white wall tearing down the mountainside.

For a split second, his brain refused to process it.

Avalanche.

Instinct snapped him into motion. He ran. Boots slipping, breath ragged, heart slamming against his ribs. The sound behind him grew louder, swallowing the night. Snow exploded forward with violent force, faster than he could ever hope to outrun.

The impact was brutal.

He was thrown off his feet, rolled, buried. Cold packed into his mouth, his nose, his ears. The weight pressed down like the world itself had collapsed onto him. Panic surged hot in his chest as he fought to move, to create space, to breathe. He clawed at the snow, lungs burning, limbs numb. For the first time in years, there was no respawn. No reset.

Just survival.

Darkness swallowed him.

When Reno opened his eyes again, everything felt distant and heavy. His vision blurred in and out, the sky pale and unfamiliar above him. For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming—some hyper-realistic survival game with brutal graphics.

Then pain registered.

He was half-buried in snow near the side of the chalet. His body ached, muscles screaming in protest. His gloves were torn, jacket dusted white. He coughed, rolling slightly, forcing air back into his lungs. Somehow—impossibly—he was alive.

And he wasn’t alone.

A few feet away, another figure lay partially trapped in the snow, unmoving but clearly breathing. Reno groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

Of course.

Of course this would happen on the one trip he didn’t want to take.

He glanced toward the chalet, damaged but still standing, then back at the stranger beside him. His heart was still racing, adrenaline buzzing under his skin. The cold bit deeper now that the shock was fading.

And yet, absurdly, one thought pushed through everything else:

His PS5 was sitting at home.

Powered off. Unused. Probably gathering dust.

He let out a shaky, irritated laugh that turned into a cough. Trust his parents’ “fresh air” idea to escalate into near-death chaos. Trust real life to throw him into the most extreme scenario possible.

But as he struggled to sit up, snow crunching beneath him, something else stirred beneath the annoyance.

For the first time in a long while, his hands weren’t shaking because of anxiety.

They were shaking because he had survived something real.

No controller. No respawn. No scripted outcome.

Just him.

And someone else who might need help.