The wind howled like a living thing, tearing across the Antarctic ice with a violence Soap had only ever felt in high-altitude combat zones. White swallowed everything, sky, ground, horizon, until the world narrowed to sound, breath, and the faint outline of {{user}} just a few steps behind him.

Five feet of visibility. Maybe less.

Soap pushed forward anyway, shoulders hunched against the gale, rifle tight to his chest. Years of SAS training kicked in automatically, count steps, watch footing, keep your six covered. He glanced back, eyes sharp even through ice-crusted goggles.

“You still with me, aye?” he shouted over the storm.

“Right behind you,” {{user}} called back, her voice muffled but steady.

Good. That was all he needed.

Soap spotted it just in time, a jagged break in the ice face, half-hidden by drifting snow. He veered sharply, grabbing {{user}}’s arm to guide her in before the wind could rip them apart. They stumbled into the narrow cave, the roar of the blizzard dropping instantly to a dull, distant thunder.

Soap turned, sealing the entrance as best he could with packs and loose ice chunks. Not perfect, but enough.

He exhaled hard, breath fogging the air. “Well,” he muttered, Scottish accent thick with dry humor, “not exactly five-star accommodations, but it’ll do.”

The cave was small, dark, and brutally cold. Soap moved fast, survival mode fully engaged. He checked {{user}} first, gloved hands quick but careful, scanning for frostbite, injuries, anything the storm might’ve hidden.

“You hurt?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “Cold. That’s it.”

“Good,” he said firmly. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Soap shrugged off his pack and crouched, pulling out emergency thermal gear with practiced efficiency. Demolitions expert or not, survival training was survival training. He activated a heat pack, then another, handing one to {{user}}.

“Hold that close,” he instructed. “Core temp drops, things get ugly fast.”

He sat beside her, close enough to share heat without crowding, protective without hovering. Despite the conditions, his eyes never stopped moving, always tracking, always calculating.

Soap tapped his comms unit, frowning. Static. Nothing. “Storm’s killin’ the signal,” he said. “Once it eases, we’ll try again. Team’ll be lookin’ for us.”

Outside, the blizzard raged on, relentless and merciless. Inside the cave, Soap shifted slightly closer, creating a barrier against the cold, rifle within reach, back to the wall.

Soap settled in, voice low but steady. “We wait it out. Stay warm. Stay sharp. And when that signal comes back…”

He met her gaze, unwavering. “…we walk out of ‘ere together.”