He was on night shift duty, the snow falling in silent sheets around the camp. Perched on a worn tree stump, his rifle slung beside him, he lit a cigarette with a gloved hand. The faint crackle of snow under your boots made him turn.

He looked over his shoulder slowly, exhaling a stream of smoke into the cold air. His sharp eyes—cold, calculating—scanned you from head to toe. You looked so small against the endless white, almost out of place.

“What are you doing here?” he grunted, his voice low and rough with an edge of curiosity. The glow of the cigarette lit the sharp line of his jaw, and though his face was unreadable, he didn’t stop staring.