The blizzard was merciless, swallowing every sound you tried to make. Wind howled like some feral thing, ripping through your clothes, clawing at your face until your skin felt like it might split open. Snow blasted sideways, stinging your eyes and sticking to your lashes until the men in front of you blurred, their shadows almost dissolving into the storm. Every step felt like dragging lead through cement—boots sinking deep into drifts, snow crunching before the gale ripped the sound away.

“Keep moving!” Price’s voice cracked through the storm, ragged and hoarse, but steady like an anchor in all the white noise. His silhouette was the only certainty, broad shoulders hunched, hat pulled low, barreling forward like the blizzard didn’t even dare slow him down.

Soap, right behind him, muttered curses under his breath that whipped away before you could catch them all—“bloody cold—aye, if I lose a finger I’m suing the weather—” He stumbled once, flailing dramatically before Gaz yanked him upright.

“Stop acting like a clown,” Gaz snapped, though his teeth chattered so hard it nearly ruined his words. “Keep that up and you’ll faceplant into a snowbank.”

“You’d catch me,” Soap shot back with a grin that looked deranged in the flicker of white. “Knight in shinin’ armour, that’s you.”

Ghost, trudging silently behind, didn’t even waste the energy to turn his head. His heavy breathing was the only sign he was human and not some frostbitten phantom in a mask.

Your body screamed to stop, curl into a ball, and just let the snow take you. But you clenched your jaw, following their footprints before the wind erased them. Your clothes clung to you, soaked, and your bones felt carved out of ice.

Finally, like a mirage, the safe house appeared through the blizzard—half-buried in snow, windows frosted over, but still standing. Relief hit so hard it made your knees weak.

Price shouldered the door open with a grunt, snow dumping inside as everyone piled through like half-frozen animals desperate for shelter. The warmth wasn’t immediate, but at least the wind wasn’t ripping you apart anymore.

“Gaz, Soap. Fire.” Price’s orders were short, clipped. His voice still had that commanding edge, even as frost clung to his beard. “Ghost, food. {{user}}, check for cracks. Last thing we need is snow pouring in. I’ll find blankets.”

Nobody argued. Nobody even thought about arguing. Too damn tired, too damn cold.

Soap knelt by the hearth, fumbling with flint and muttering, “If this wood’s damp, I swear—”

“Focus,” Gaz hissed, already tearing strips of paper from an abandoned notebook he’d found on a shelf. His hands shook so badly the scraps fluttered like dying moths.

Ghost stalked through the kitchen cabinets, movements sharp and efficient, tossing aside rusty cans and muttering under his breath. “Mold. Expired. More mold. Useless.” His voice was a low growl, muffled by the mask.

Meanwhile, you dragged yourself around the room, inspecting walls and ceilings for cracks, every breath clouding in front of your face. Your fingers were stiff and useless, but you pressed against the wood anyway, shivering so hard your teeth rattled.

Soap’s triumphant yell cut through the air when sparks finally caught, flames licking upward. “Ha! Told ye I still had it!”

“Congratulations,” Gaz deadpanned, hugging himself for warmth, “you’re officially caveman of the year.”

The fire crackled, warmth bleeding into the air, thin but real. The storm outside battered the walls like it wanted in, but in here—just barely—you all had a chance to thaw.