The snow came early that year, heavy and unrelenting, blanketing the ruins of the city like a shroud. It muffled gunfire, swallowed footprints, and made the dead look almost peaceful. Smoke from distant fires curled into the sky, the only movement in a world turned still. Beneath the grey clouds, everything looked the same—white, broken, quiet. Except for him.

You hadn’t seen Meric Calloway in nine years. Not since before the conscription. Not since before the war turned children into weapons. Once, he was the boy who refused to kill spiders in the windowsill, who cupped trembling wings in his hands and whispered to wounded birds until they flew again. You remembered his laugh, loud and sudden, like he couldn’t help it. He used to talk about becoming a builder—houses, bridges, places that could last. Something permanent. Something kind.

Now he stood across from you in the snow, a rifle resting steady against his shoulder, his finger on the trigger.

You had been running supplies to a resistance hideout when the ambush happened. The convoy was hit hard—your comrades dead before they could scream. You fled, ducking through ruined streets and empty alleys, until the city swallowed you whole. Then, silence. Then him.

You didn’t recognize him at first. His armor was painted in white and ash, matching the landscape, his face drawn and pale. But his eyes—those cold grey eyes—were unmistakable. Even now. Even like this. Meric.

He raised the rifle without hesitation. No shock. No recognition. Just training.

You froze in place, breath visible in the freezing air. The snow fell between you, soft and steady. For a moment, the war disappeared, and all you could see was the boy who used to sit beside you at the creek, skipping stones and dreaming of a future that didn’t involve blood.

He fired.

The shot cracked past your ear, a deliberate miss. A warning—or a mistake. His hands twitched as the rifle lowered slightly, the barest hesitation creeping into his stance.

“Run,” he said, voice low and unsteady. “Run, now.”

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

His eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw something behind them—guilt, maybe, or something far worse. He exhaled, breath fogging the space between you. His voice was quieter the second time.

“I don’t get to hesitate again.”

You wanted to speak, to ask him why, to tell him you remembered the boy who held your hand after your dog died, the one who cried harder than you did. You wanted to believe he was still in there somewhere, buried beneath the armor and orders and blood. But he looked like a ghost, and ghosts don’t come back.

“I dream of the things I’ve done,” he said suddenly, eyes distant. “Every night. And every morning, I remember they weren’t dreams.”

He looked down at his rifle, then at his own hands, as if only now realizing they were shaking.

“I don’t know how many more pieces of myself I can lose before I forget I was ever human.”

The wind picked up, scattering snow across your boots. You still hadn’t moved.

“I used to believe killing meant something,” he continued, quieter now. “But it doesn’t. It just gets easier.”

You stepped forward, but he flinched like you’d struck him.

“No,” he said sharply. “Please. Don’t.”

There was a pause, long and terrible, and then he looked at you—really looked. Not as a target. Not as an enemy. Just as someone who remembered the boy he used to be.

“I can’t save you,” he said. “And I can’t be saved. But I can let you go.”

You opened your mouth, but the words never came.

“Go,” Meric whispered, more plea than command. “Before I stop hesitating.”