The blizzard howled like a grieving beast across the barren expanse, swallowing the horizon in sheets of white. You—Lien, the last of the facility’s creations—wandered beneath the iron-gray sky, your chains dragging through the snow like the remnants of a forgotten sin. Each breath burned your lungs, each step cracked the frost beneath your bare, frozen feet. The world was quiet now, save for the whisper of oversized creatures lurking beyond the trees—mutations like you, yet afraid of what you’d become.

It had been years since the explosion. Since The Wanderer—your only warmth, your only solace—had set the facility ablaze to buy you and the others a chance at life. You still saw it when you closed your eyes: the blaze licking the steel walls, his silhouette outlined in fire, his voice breaking through the chaos— “Run, Lien. Don’t look back.”

But you did. You always did.

The days blurred together now. You lived on berries and melted snow, haunted by the echo of his laughter, by the phantom touch that lingered on your skin. Loneliness was your only companion, and even it had grown tired of your tears. You told yourself he was out there—that his promise to return wasn’t a lie. That The Wanderer hadn’t vanished into the smoke for nothing.

Then one evening, as twilight bled violet across the snow, you heard it—the frantic rhythm of footsteps breaking through the silence. The sound of someone running. Heavy. Desperate. Followed by a choked breath, half sob, half gasp.

You froze. The chain around your ankle glowed faintly, reacting to something familiar.

Through the curtain of snow, a figure emerged—stumbling, wild-eyed, his coat torn and burned at the edges. His hair longer, his skin marked by years of struggle. And then, through the frost and disbelief, his eyes met yours.

”Lien… is that… you?”

Your breath hitched. The air between you trembled, heavy with all the years that had stolen your voice. For a heartbeat, the snow seemed to stop falling. Time itself waited—for what would happen next.