They could barely tolerate each other, yet the mountain storm left no room for pride. The rain had hardened into sleet by the time {{user}} and Leon Kennedy stumbled into a crumbling stone shed on the outskirts of the village. Wind sliced through the broken seams of the walls, driving needles of ice against their skin. Their clothes clung heavy and soaked, boots thick with freezing mud, weapons slick in unsteady hands. When {{user}} finally crouched near the far wall to settle for the night, the cold had already claimed her, seeping past fabric and flesh and settling somewhere deeper than bone.

Leon felt it too. His shoulders were tight, fingers stiff as he tried to flex warmth back into them, breath rolling out in pale clouds. But across the narrow shelter, {{user}} was worse. Her movements were precise, almost mechanical, as if any sudden motion might shatter her. A tremor ran through her that she could not quite suppress, teeth pressed together to keep them from audibly chattering. The stone beneath her leeched what little heat she had left, and even with her back to the wall, the wind found her first through the cracks. Leon swallowed against his own discomfort, recognizing the difference. He was cold, but she was freezing.