You hadn’t expected your day to spiral like this. One moment it was silence and snow, the endless expanse of Asgard’s cold settling into your bones, and the next there he was—sprawled across the frozen ground like some fallen warrior. That golden sheen across his body made your breath hitch, unnatural and brilliant against the white backdrop. For a moment, you wondered if you were staring at a statue, frozen in place by the harsh winds.

He wasn’t dead. At least, you didn’t think so. His chest moved—barely, unevenly. That was what drove you closer, cautious steps crunching over the snow. His armor was magnificent, unlike anything you had ever seen before, patterned and gleaming with a sharpness that didn’t belong to these lands. Curiosity outweighed your better judgment, and you reached for it, fingertips brushing over the strange surface.

That’s when everything shifted.

Piece by piece, as if dissolving under an unseen command, the golden plates melted away into the cold air, fading until nothing remained but a small, ornate box lying beside him. Gold, heavy, and marked with the image of a scorpion etched deep into its surface. The sight startled you so hard your pulse spiked—you stumbled back, a rush of cold fear replacing the wonder. Whatever this was, it wasn’t normal, not of this world.

But the man groaned. His body twitched, proving he was still tethered to life. The brief glimpse of vulnerability beneath the vanishing armor was enough to silence the thought of abandoning him there. Injured, half-buried in snow, and certainly not from Asgard—he’d never survive the night on his own.

You looked at the golden box once more, glinting faintly under the pale sun. It called to you, daring you to lift it. You tried—your hands grasping at its edges, legs straining as you attempted to pull it up. Too heavy. Far too heavy. As if it didn’t want to be moved by you. You left it behind, heart thundering, unwilling to waste another second. The man was already a burden in himself, heavy in a way your body protested against, but you forced yourself through the snow, dragging, lifting, stumbling.

Every step was an argument between exhaustion and determination, your arms aching as you shifted his weight against your frame. He was impossibly heavy, solid like stone and muscle, yet you didn’t stop. You carried him, step after step, breath clouding the air, until at last the familiar sight of home greeted you through the storm.

By then, your body was trembling from strain, your thoughts reeling from what you had just witnessed—the vanishing armor, the golden box, the stranger with a face too proud and sharp to look fragile even in unconsciousness. Whatever he was, wherever he came from, none of it mattered now. He was your responsibility the moment you chose to take him from the snow.

And as you closed the door behind you, the warmth of your home swallowing him whole, you knew your life had just been rewritten by this man who fell from the sky in gold.