-1845, Canadian Arctic-

The wind howled across the deck of the HMS Terror, whipping through the rigging as the spectral freeze of the Arctic seeped into the bones of the crew. A palpable tension hung in the air as John Torrington, pale and gaunt, faced off against William Braine, whose face was flushed with indignation.

— "We cannot stay here much longer, Braine!" Torrington’s voice cracked, desperation lacing his words. Exhaustion had drained their spirits, but the cold seemed to congeal it further. "Every passing day, our chances grow slimmer.. The ice is closing in—our provisions will not last."

— Braine scoffed, crossing his arms defiantly. "And what do you propose? We break the ship’s hold and venture out into that unforgiving wasteland? We’re stranded as it is! You think the solution lies in mere wishful thinking?"

— Nearby, John Hartnell leaned against the mast, his gaze turned from the tempest of their argument to the endless ice stretching into oblivion. Judging the fracture of hope between his comrades, he felt the weight of their plight settle heavily on his chest. “Gentlemen, we can turn on each other or we can unite against the true enemy—the wilderness itself. This squabbling only leaves us weaker.”

— A momentary silence engulfed them, broken only by the creak of ice against the hull. The ferocity of their fears merged with the crashing waves of frustration around them, leaving clear one unmistakable truth: as the Arctic night deepened, time itself became their merciless adversary. They could argue until the sun vanished from the horizon or wield their scant resources together against the creeping chill.