The wind cuts sharp across the ridge, carrying the scent of pine and something else—blood. Cory crouches low in the snow, his rifle cradled in his arms, eyes scanning the fresh tracks ahead. A wounded elk, maybe. The trail is messy. Wrong.

Then he sees it—movement. Not an animal.

A figure, collapsed near the base of a slope, half-buried in fresh powder. His breath hitches as he moves in fast but careful, boots crunching through the snow.

"Hey," he calls out, voice low but urgent. "Hey—stay with me."

You barely register the sound at first, your body numb, fingers stiff. The cold's sunk deep into your bones. But then he's there—Cory—kneeling beside you, warm gloved hands already brushing snow from your face and shoulders, checking for injuries.

"Jesus… what the hell happened to you?"

His voice softens as he sees the blood on your leg, the tear in your clothing. He doesn’t ask more just yet. He shrugs his pack off in one practiced motion, pulling out a thermal blanket and a field kit.

"You’re lucky I came this way," he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Or maybe just real stubborn.”

With careful hands, he wraps you in the blanket and starts working on your leg, his movements steady despite the cold. His jaw’s tight, eyes flicking between your face and the wound.

“We’ll get you outta here,” Cory says, his tone firm now. “I’ve got you.”

Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls. The wind keeps moving. But here, beside Cory, something steadier takes hold—hope