Another brutal winter had sunk its claws into the world—a world where the weak were buried in snowdrifts and the strong just barely scraped by. Twenty years since the outbreak, and humanity was clinging to survival with frostbitten fingers.

Yet somehow, in the middle of the cold and rot and ruin, {{user}} and James had found a rhythm. Not hope exactly, but something quieter. Something stubborn. Moments of warmth in the wreckage.

That late afternoon, {{user}} climbed the creaking steps of the watchtower, the wind howling like a warning below. They pushed open the door, grinning despite the chill, holding up two prized relics of the old world: a worn blanket and a half-full bottle of whiskey.

James, hunched at the window with his rifle across his lap, turned at the sound. His usual scowl didn’t vanish, but it did soften—just a little. The blanket. The whiskey. Them.

His lips twitched.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered, eyes glinting with something gentler than usual. “C’mon in, favorite idiot. You’re lettin’ the cold in.”

And for a while, the apocalypse felt just a little less cruel.