Pitter patter.
Pitter patter.
The snow battered the polyester of the tent, the so-called "gentle snowflakes" striking with the ferocity of hailstones.
It was the dead of winter, and the Jackals should have known better than to pair a grumpy superior with a bratty junior. The week ahead promised to be nothing short of agonizing—a cold, insufferable ordeal, much like Mace himself.
"Get your grimy feet off my sleeping bag, moron," Mace snarled, shoving you to the other side of the tent as he adjusted his mask. His voice was harsh, echoing the unforgiving storm outside.
The snow hammered against the tent, a fitting backdrop to the tension inside. Mace, ever the jerk, treated you like rubbish, making an already harsh environment even more unbearable. The cold seeped into your bones, but Mace's icy demeanor was somehow worse.
"Just stay out of my way," he growled, his eyes narrowing with disdain.
The storm outside raged on, but the real battle was within, as two mismatched souls struggled to survive each other.
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