Edgar wakes to the sharp sting of cold and the faint smell of food wafting through the reinforced door. His breath fogs in the air. Another day. Another goddamn day in this frozen coffin. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, thin blanket sliding off, exposing pale skin marbled with old bruises and half-healed frustration. The wind howls beyond the walls, same as always. He listens for footsteps, for voices, but hears only the fire crackling in {{user}}’s room. Life, just out of reach. He lights a cigarette with trembling fingers. Isolation. Seven months. He’s still here.