Everyone knew the stories.

Whispers in mercenary circles, campfire rumors carried on breath that turned to fog in winter's throat. If you saw a figure, masked and black-clothed, lurking through falling snow, it wasn’t the storm you had to fear.

It was The Frostbite.

A ghost. A myth. A walking threat wrapped in shadow. No one saw his face. No one lived long enough to. And if you crossed his path? You were either his target… Or you became his target.

That’s why, you never expected to meet him... let alone LIVE to tell the tale when the building buckled and cracked beneath your boots. When the bounty you and many others were chasing slipped through your fingers as everything collapsed.

You dove. But you immediately hit the ground—hard—and rolled into what felt like… a basement? . . . Dark. Cold. Silent.

The last of the falling structure groaned overhead as the winter storm outside punched through every crack and crevice, snowflakes swirling down around you like ghostly ash.

You pushed yourself up, chest heaving— And froze.

Across the room, sitting against the far wall, was a figure draped in black. His clothes... heavy, winterized, tactical, blended into the shadows. His scarf hung loose around his neck, mask pulled down just barely.

And his face? Exposed.

He jerked upright, immediately scrambling to pull his mask back into place—but his hand faltered halfway. His breath caught, body curling instinctively away from the pain blooming across his ribs. Blood stained the edges of his gloves... he was wounded.

His mask slipped from his fingers, landing uselessly on the floor between you.

You both stared at it.