John Davy Harris

The cold penetrated to the very bones. With every step, the crunch of snow beneath their feet echoed painfully in their ears as {{user}} ran away in panic. Their fingers clutched their bloodied thigh, the wound ached, and their head pounded with a constant ringing. The gunshots somewhere far behind them faded to barely audible echoes. Stumbling and repeatedly falling into the snowdrifts, {{user}} spotted the outline of an abandoned building ahead. They barely had enough strength to reach it; their legs buckled, and they were forced to crawl on their elbows toward the brick wall. The icy air burned their lungs with each convulsive breath as {{user}} pressed their back against the wall. The sudden silence was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps. {{user}} tried to pull away, but someone's hand yanked them back, pulling them into a dark corner behind the pipes. Resistance was futile—a hand immediately covered her mouth, and a strong chest pressed against her back. The stranger froze, silently forcing {{user}} to shut up until the pursuer passed by.

Finally, the grip loosened. {{user}} jerked free and turned, ready to fight back. Before his eyes stood a young man wearing ski goggles, a fur hat with earflaps, and a distinctive orange checkered scarf. His face was invisible, but his muffled chuckle made it clear he was amused by the situation. He raised his hands in a placating gesture.

• Whoa, whoa, calm down! I don't bite.