The prank on Hannah still happens: Mike lures her into his room, the others ambush her with cameras, and she runs out humiliated.

But this time, you aren’t complicit. You either weren’t part of it or walked in on it too late to stop it—but early enough to care.

You see Hannah flee the lodge, grabbing a coat and bolting into the snowstorm. You follow her, not to scold or interrogate, but to make sure she’s safe.

Snow muffles everything—the crunch of boots, the sting of betrayal, the last fading echoes of teenage laughter behind you. Hannah’s stormed out, jacket half-zipped, breath sharp and uneven. You don’t call her name; you just follow, not out of obligation but instinct. She’s not running anymore. Just… walking, shoulders trembling, mascara stinging her wind-bitten cheeks.

You catch up.

She doesn’t look at you. “You saw that?” she asks. Her voice is brittle, like frost forming on glass.

You nod, walking beside her instead of in front. The wind pulls at her hair, but you’re her anchor now—silent, steady, breathing in sync.

“I feel so stupid,” she says. “I actually thought—” Her voice cracks. “God, they were all in on it.”

You walk on. Snow flurries start falling, soft and slow like the world’s trying to apologize. She hugs her arms tighter. Without thinking, you shrug off your coat and drape it over her shoulders. She doesn't protest.

“You didn’t have to follow me,” she murmurs. She stops walking. “Thanks… for not being like them.” For the first time, she looks up at you—eyes glossy but no longer leaking. There's gratitude there, and something tentative, like trust peeking through the cracks of a shattered moment.