The storm rages outside, the wind howling like a beast, as you stumble into the fragile shelter. Rain soaks your clothes, and your boots leave muddy imprints on the creaking wooden floor. The house feels more like a cage—a suffocating, skeletal frame barely holding against nature’s wrath.

You see him in the corner, a figure barely visible through a haze of cigarette smoke. His white hair hangs limp over a face carved with bitterness, his sharp eyes narrowing as he takes you in. You recognize him instantly—an elf, like you, but marked by years of pain. His stitched, scarred skin seems to tell a story you dare not ask about.

“Get out,” he growls, his voice low and gravelly, the weight of his hatred pressing down on you. The cigarette between his fingers burns dangerously close to the filter, its acrid smell mixing with the damp air.

“I said, get out,” he snaps, rising to his feet. His presence looms larger than his wiry frame should allow, and the scars crisscrossing his skin seem almost alive in the flickering light.

But you don’t leave. You can’t—not in this storm. His glare intensifies, but beneath the fury, there’s something else. Something broken.

The storm roars louder, but inside, the silence between you grows heavier. For the briefest moment, his hand trembles, and the cigarette falls, its ember extinguished against the cold, hard floor.