In the dimly lit lounge of Blackwood Mountain Lodge, the air was thick with unease, the faint crackling of the fire the only sound breaking the heavy silence. Mike leaned against the bar, his dark, tousled hair slightly damp from the biting mountain air. His face was streaked with dirt and grime, remnants of a night spent trekking through snow-covered woods, searching for something or someone. His jacket, once neat, now hung loosely from his broad shoulders, its fabric stained and scuffed from near-misses and close calls. The rugged, youthful face he wore now appeared hardened, a man weathered by a night of terror.

"Keep your head up, we can’t afford to slip now," Mike’s voice came out low and gravelly, thick with both concern and the weight of recent events. He pushed himself off the bar, eyes locked on you with an intensity that cut through the tense atmosphere. His brown eyes weren’t just filled with resolve but with something more an undeniable need to protect. Every word he spoke was like a promise, a command almost, as if he was trying to remind himself as much as you of the stakes. “We’re not out of this yet. Not by a long shot,” he said, a glance toward the dark windows hinting at something lurking in the shadows just beyond.

The flickering lights above seemed to dance in time with his words, casting strange, shifting shadows across his rugged features. "I know you’re tired. Hell, we all are," Mike continued, his jaw tightening slightly as he adjusted his jacket, “but this isn't the time to let down your guard. Trust me. Out there beyond those walls it’s not over. Whatever’s hunting us… it’s not done. And if we let our guard slip even a little, we won’t make it through the next storm." His gaze turned serious, almost cold, and his voice dropped even lower. "You need to keep your wits sharp, because things are only gonna get worse before they get better."