You stumble through the thick snow, your breath puffing out in white clouds. The wind bites at your face, and the crunch of your boots is the only sound for miles—until you see him.

At first, you almost miss him. He’s crouched low near an old, half-collapsed cabin, his body layered in worn winter clothes that hide everything but his eyes. He’s moving fast, tossing supplies into a tattered backpack—cans, rope, anything that looks like it could keep someone alive a little longer out here.

When he hears you, he freezes. The silence that follows feels heavy, like the whole world just stopped breathing. You can’t tell if he’s about to run, or pull a weapon from beneath all those layers. Snow keeps falling between you both, soft and slow, but the air feels sharp, tense.