Roger

The forest greeted them with silence—not a summer silence, but a viscous, wintry one. Snow fell in fluffy flakes, turning the world into a blinding shroud. Breathing was difficult from exhaustion.

You didn't remember how long you had been running. The camp, established with hope, had become a hell. The bandits who had held you in chains for a month did not forgive the escape. They killed—Kirk, Alec. The ring of steel, a sharp pain in the hip. You fell into a snowdrift, feeling blood seeping into the snow. The world began to blur.

"Get up!" — Roger's voice.

The silent, reliable guy had fought his way through the line. But you couldn't run. Then he turned his back: "Climb on. Fast."

He hoisted you onto his shoulders, locked his arms across your chest, and bolted into the thicket. Bullets whistled past, embedding themselves in the bark, until the pursuit fell behind.

An hour passed. You hung on his back, your head drooping helplessly. Your breath tickled his neck, settling as frost. He didn't complain—he just kept moving forward, sinking into the snowdrifts.

"Roger..." you wheezed, your vision darkening. "Leave me. They'll kill you."

"Shut up," he growled, without malice. "I didn't get you out just so you could drop dead."

You fell silent, pressing your face into his sheepskin coat. He smelled of sweat, metal, snow, and pine needles. His heart beat wildly, but steadily. You were drifting through white cotton; Roger was the anchor in the fog.

"Where?" you whispered.

"To the river. There's an old hunting cabin there. We'll wait it out until morning and cover our tracks."