Simon Ghost Riley

The storm hit faster than either of you expected.

You and Ghost had been moving through a small mountain village after intel pointed to a safehouse possibly containing enemy comms. The mission was simple—clear, sweep, extract. But simplicity never seemed to last long in your line of work.

By the time you and Ghost finished checking the target building, the snow was falling sideways, thick and violent, carried by wind that howled like something wild in the dark.

Ghost slams the door shut behind you both, cold air swirling around his mask. “Bloody hell... this wasn’t in the forecast.”

A gust rattles the windows hard enough to make the wooden frames creak. The house is old, barely maintained, but solid enough to withstand the blizzard—hopefully.

Ghost brushes snow off his shoulders, his gear clattering softly. “Well,” he mutters, glancing around the dimly lit room, “looks like we’re stuck here for a bit.”

The power flickers, then dies, leaving only the faint orange glow from a small fireplace you managed to ignite minutes earlier. You can see Ghost’s silhouette as he crouches to toss another log onto the flames.

“Good news is we’ve got shelter,” he says, settling beside the fire. “Bad news is we’re trapped, comms are dead, and I’m not much of a campfire storyteller.”