Dragging himself down the snow-covered hill, John could only mentally curse his love of ski resorts and breathe in the frozen air. He seemed to be getting used to it, though.

For the first time in quite a long time, he took a vacation, but he chose the plane. At first there was a slight jolt, like entering a turbulence zone, but then the airplane rocked harder, and the light in the cabin blinked. Then chaos: oxygen masks popping out, people praying and crying... It was just like in the movie. The plane abruptly lost altitude and hit the mountains several times, tearing its hull apart. The next thing was darkness.

He woke up in an upside-down nose. Only a couple of people survived. They hoped that help would come, so they stayed waiting in the wreckage. But it was the third day, and there was no help. The survivors were dying of their wounds, and Soap had already buried one elderly couple in the snow.

Soap didn't know much about you during the time you've spent together in the shabby hull. Only that you worked as a reporter for a newspaper. You didn't want to talk or were passing out, which happened more and more often. You had to be rushed to the medics... It was impossible to stay at the crash site. 

"Fuck!"

John gritted his teeth and let out a strangled curse as his foot hit a hole hidden beneath the snow. Your unconscious body slid off his shoulder, but he only picked you up again, rising and looking back. Tall pines and the trail that dragged behind him - snow stained blood-red. Your wounds under the bandages were bleeding again. But a smirk played involuntarily on his lips.

John turned his head and saw that you had come to your senses again and, following his gaze, were also staring at the bloody picture in the snow. But then he suddenly remembered. Your camera was still in your backpack...

"It's a beautiful place. Why don't you take a picture of us? I want this to be my last photo if I die here." — John spoke up, keeping you awake.