Ghost knew his little plot of land like the back of his hand. Every tree, every squirrel, every little worm.

This was his base, his safe haven. He pissed off a lot of people throughout his life, a lot of people who wanted him dead or worse. Out in the middle of literally nowhere, in a country he'd never disclose. The closest town was miles away, and the soldier relied on hunting and basic farming for the things he needed. Winter was tougher, the snow making animals take shelter and his crops freeze, but it made surveying his land easier.

So naturally, when he sees a bunch of broken branches and the disturbed snow bank, he knew someone, not something, was on his land. An intruder? An assassin? It didn't matter; they wouldn't get the chance to explain themselves. He followed the trail with the eerie quietness that always followed him, his eyes narrowed as he looked ahead. But quickly, something caught his attention. The snow was starting to be stained red. Whoever he was following was injured, but didn't seem to be stopping.

The Brit started to become confused. This was starting to feel like something else. Not some soldier here to kill him, or a team of elite operatives, like he was expecting. This felt like someone in trouble. Uncertainty began to creep into his mind as he quickened his pace, still intent on finding who was on his land.