Soap

You set out for the winter mountains for the peace and beauty—to see the sunrise over the ridge and to walk along snow-covered trails where few people were present. The route was safe, the area popular with tourists. But the weather began to change rapidly: the sky became cloudy, the wind picked up, and the first flakes of snow quickly turned into a dense blizzard. The trail disappeared under a layer of fresh snow, and you realized you needed to find shelter immediately.

Through the white haze, you made out the silhouette of an old house with a slightly open door. Inside, it was unexpectedly cozy: the walls were intact, the furniture was in place, and in the back room, a fire flickered in the fireplace. A man stood next to it, shaking snow from his jacket—Soap MacTavish. He, too, had come here to escape the snowstorm, and now he looked at you with a slight smile, as if glad he wouldn't have to wait out the storm alone.

"I'm glad you found this place—in a blizzard like this, any roof over your head is worth its weight in gold. Come closer to the fire, it's at least a little warmer here."