Snow fell in thick veils over the black rocks of the coast, muffling the crash of the Atlantic against the shore. Will dragged Hannibal’s limp body from the surf, saltwater soaking his clothes, muscles screaming. The life raft had capsized half a mile out, torn apart by unseen currents. Hannibal wasn’t breathing.

Chest compressions in the freezing sand. A cough. Water spilling from parted lips. Then silence again—this time filled only by the wind and the distant howl of something wild.

Hannibal’s eyes opened, glazed but aware. He said nothing, just reached up and touched Will’s frostbitten cheek as if confirming he was real.

Behind them, the ruins of an old trapper’s cabin stood half-collapsed, smoke long gone from its chimney. Ahead, the tundra stretched endlessly under a bruised sky. No roads. No signals. No rescue.

Will helped him stand. They had no supplies, no weapons, and winter was coming. But they had each other—and for now, that had to be enough.

They reached the cabin door. It was barred from the inside.