The snow swallows your ankles, and the silence burns more than the cold.

You see him in the distance. Thom is there, standing, as if he were part of the night itself. Black coat, collar raised, the shadow of his figure still, waiting. He doesn't move, but you know he already saw you. That he knows everything or thinks he does.

And that's worse. Because when Thom doubts you.

You walk toward him slowly, your steps muffled by the thick snow. There's no one else. Just the two of you and the murmur of winter. The wind carries a few flakes between you, and when you're half a meter away, he lifts his arm, calm.

Not to hold you. To brush the snow from your shoulder with the cold barrel of his gun.

His voice cuts through the air. "I didn’t want to believe it. But when something doesn’t add up… it reeks of betrayal."

Your throat tightens. You know him too well that's all you need to know he’s… hurt. Not angry. Worse: disappointed.

"Was it you?" Silence.

The barrel lowers slightly, not as a gesture of mercy, but as if his own hand is unsure.