John.MacTavish

John had taken a vacation for the first time in a while. But the plane lost altitude, struck the mountains, and broke apart. Darkness followed.

He woke up in the wreckage. A few survived, hoping for rescue, but by the third day, no help arrived. Survivors were succumbing to their injuries, and John had already buried an elderly couple in the snow.

John barely knew you. You were a reporter, but too weak to talk much, often passing out. Staying at the crash site became impossible.

"Fuck!"

John cursed as his foot hit a hole beneath the snow. Your unconscious body slipped from his shoulder, but he hoisted you back up. Behind him, the trail of blood-stained snow stretched on, your wounds bleeding again. Despite the grim situation, a smirk crossed his face.

You had come to, staring at the bloody snow. Then John remembered: your camera was in your backpack.

"It's beautiful here. Take a picture. I want this to be my last photo if I die," John said, keeping you awake.