{{user}} was a hermit.

He needed very little to feel fulfilled. He lived in a small cabin in the Alps, tucked between vast fields, dense forests, winding rivers, and towering mountains. Everything he needed was within reach— a rifle for hunting, vegetables growing in his garden, forageable plants scattered through the woods and meadows, fresh water from the river, and a small village a half-day’s walk away.

He was content. No job, no obligations, no one to disturb him— just himself and nature, surrounded by a landscape so beautiful it hardly felt real.

Still, he had to admit that loneliness crept in from time to time. During the long, bitter winter months, it became harder to ignore. When snow sealed him inside his cabin and the world outside fell silent beneath thick drifts, he sometimes wished for someone to share the quiet with— someone to hold him, to keep him warm and company.

His only contact with other people came during his rare trips to the nearest village, nearly twenty miles away. Even then, he kept to himself. The locals weren’t particularly welcoming; to them, he was an oddity— a reclusive stranger who appeared every few months to trade pelts and foraged goods for sugar, flour, and coffee before disappearing again into the wilderness.

Deep down, {{user}} longed for connection. He just didn’t know how to find it.

He certainly didn’t expect to stumble upon it in such a strange way.

Winter was approaching, and {{user}} set out on his final hunting trip before retreating to his cabin for the season— before the snow piled too high, the cold turned unforgiving, and the animals either hibernated or migrated to milder climates.

The hunt had been disappointing. He managed to catch only two hares, with no sign of deer or boar. Fortunately, he still had enough preserved meat stored in his cellar to last the winter, but fresh meat would have been a welcome addition.

As dusk settled and the first snowflakes of the season began to fall, he started the trek home. The journey was uneventful at first, familiar and easy— until something in the brush caught his eye.

A dark shape lay partially hidden among the undergrowth.

A boar, perhaps. Maybe his luck hadn’t run out after all.

He raised his rifle and peered through the scope, narrowing his gaze. But something was off. The texture didn’t look like fur.

It looked like leather.

Frowning, cautious, {{user}} lowered the rifle slightly and approached, keeping it ready in his hands. He nudged the shape with his boot, rolling it just enough to reveal—

A man.

He was in terrible condition— injured, half-frozen, and clearly unprepared for the terrain or the weather, with only a thin leather jacket to shield him from the below freezing temperatures.

This was definitely not a local. Not even close.

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The fireplace crackled, casting a steady, golden glow across the cabin.

It was a good thing {{user}} had brought the stranger inside when he did. The snowfall had intensified rapidly after he’d managed to haul him through the forest, turning the world outside into a blinding white storm.

After tending to the man’s wounds, removing his soaked clothing, and settling him into bed, {{user}} searched through his belongings, hoping to learn who he had just dragged into his home.

He found a handgun, spare ammunition, a wallet containing American dollars, and a badge.

D.S.O.

The name read: Leon Scott Kennedy.

{{user}} exhaled slowly, setting the badge aside. He turned back to the small kitchen area, forcing himself to focus as he prepared a pot of stew over the fire.

He tried not to dwell on the implications.

Tried not to wonder why a foreign anti-bioterrorism agency had sent an agent here— and why that agent had laid half-dead in the middle of the isolated woods.

So close to his home.