The cave breathed silence.
It wasn't just the muffled quiet of a hidden cavern but a profound stillness, the kind that sank into the bones. Snow fell outside in slow, deliberate spirals, cloaking the entrance like a velvet curtain. The morning light was faint, gray and sterile, filtered through thick clouds that blanketed the sky. It was the first snowfall since their escape across the river and into the foothills, and it changed everything.
Ethan sat with his back against the damp stone wall, his crossbow resting beside him, bolts lined neatly on a tattered canvas. His leg throbbed from the previous day's rockslide scramble, but he didn't complain. The pain grounded him. Reminded him that he was still human. Still breakable.
Joel was already awake, standing near the cave's mouth with his rifle in hand, watching the snowfall with the wary patience of a man who trusted nothing. He hadn't said much since the escape. A few grunts, a terse comment about the storm coming in. But Ethan didn't take it personally. Joel was always like that when the world narrowed into survival mode.
Ellie stirred beside him. Her head had lolled against his shoulder sometime during the night, and now, as her eyes fluttered open, he felt the subtle jolt of her pulling away. But she didn't go far. Just far enough to re-establish that thin wall they both pretended not to notice.
"Still snowing?" she whispered, her voice hoarse with sleep.
Ethan nodded, glancing toward the mouth of the cave. "Joel thinks it'll pick up soon. We might be stuck here for a bit."
Ellie pulled her hoodie tighter around her, tucking her hands into her sleeves. "Great. More freezing our asses off in scenic locations."
He smirked. "Hey, could be worse. We could still be on the other side of the river, dodging sniper fire."
She snorted. "Yeah. Or stuck in another haunted crypt with more mutant freaks."
They lapsed into a quiet lull. Not uncomfortable. Just tired. The kind of quiet that came after too many near-deaths and not enough food.
Joel finally turned. "Once the snow eases, we move. There's an old ranger station up north—used to be a firewatch post. Could have maps, radio, maybe a place to dry out."
Ethan nodded. "Elevation?"
"High. Trees thin out near the ridge. Exposed trail most of the way up."
Ethan processed the terrain in his mind, running simulations, recalling topography from old park maps he'd studied in the QZ archives. High ground meant visibility. Which also meant risk.
"We'll need cover on approach. Maybe flank through the creek bed to the east. Might be frozen now, but it follows the tree line almost to the station's base."
Joel gave him a look that almost passed for respect. "Good thinking."
Ellie stood, stretching. "So we go up into the snow. What if someone's already up there?"
"Then we improvise," Joel said.
The snow deepened as they moved.
It clung to their boots, slowed their steps, muffled their sounds. The world turned white and soundless. A wilderness made of ghosts.
Ethan moved carefully, favoring his injured leg, but he kept pace. He watched the treeline, the pattern of the wind, the behavior of birds—or more precisely, their absence. All signs. All warnings.
Joel took point. Ellie was in the middle. Ethan watched their backs.
They descended into the frozen creek bed by midday, its banks jagged with ice and frostbitten roots. The snow packed deeper here, but it was the best concealment they could get. Their breath came out in soft clouds. Conversation was minimal.
After an hour, Joel raised a fist, signaling a stop. He crouched low, peering ahead through a copse of ice-glazed pines.
Ethan followed his gaze.
A structure.
Half-hidden in mist and snow, perched against the ridge like a forgotten sentinel. The ranger station.
But there was smoke.
A thin coil, rising from the far side of the roof.
Not abandoned.
Ethan's instincts surged. He felt it again—that sense of premonition, that overlay of logic and gut. He crouched beside Joel.
"Small fire. Not big enough for heat. Signal maybe?"
Joel nodded. "Or someone's trying to stay hidden. Either way, they're up there."
Ellie looked between them. "What now? We can't just walk up and say hi."
Ethan's eyes flicked to the slope leading around the back. Trees were denser there. The angle was rough, but passable.
"We circle wide. Get a visual. Then decide."
Joel looked at him again. Not suspicion this time. Not quite approval either. Just quiet agreement.
They moved.
The climb was brutal.
The slope was a mix of loose shale and slick ice hidden beneath powder. Joel helped Ellie across a fallen log. Ethan took up the rear, scanning constantly. By the time they crested the ridge behind the station, dusk was crawling in.
From their vantage point, they saw them.
Two figures.
One man. One woman. Huddled near the fire. Pale coats. Clean. Too clean for travelers.
But what caught Ethan's attention wasn't their weapons—compact carbines slung too neatly.
It was the logo stitched on the man's sleeve.
A stylized wing. The symbol of Task Force Nightingale.
His breath caught.
Not possible. Not here. Not now.
Joel noticed his stillness.
"You recognize them?"
Ethan hesitated. "Maybe."
His mind screamed. Every theory, every dead end. And now, a trail. A thread.
Ellie leaned in. "What do we do?"
Ethan shook his head slowly. "We wait."
But inside, the storm had already begun.
They took turns on watch that night, hidden in a hollowed pine thicket overlooking the station. Ethan barely slept.
He stared at the two strangers, replaying every childhood memory, every classified document he'd ever stolen, every blurry image of his parents' unit. The man below was older, graying at the temples. The woman had a posture that screamed ex-military.
At dawn, he made his decision.
Joel tried to stop him. "You go out there alone, you're dead."
Ethan shook his head. "I have to know. I'll draw them out. You cover me from above."
Joel grunted, torn between logic and instinct. But he relented.
Ellie didn't.
"Ethan…" she stepped in front of him. "You sure about this?"
He met her eyes. "No. But it might be the only way I'll ever find out the truth—about the immunity, and about my parents."
She hesitated. Then nodded. "Just don't die. Not before we find out if you really are some mutant genius."
He smiled, the moment brief, fragile.
Then he stepped into the snow.
They saw him instantly.
The man drew his weapon, rising to full height. The woman stepped in front of the fire, shielding her eyes from the glare.
"Don't move!" the man barked.
Ethan raised both hands slowly.
"I'm alone. Just passing through."
"Bullshit," the woman muttered. "You knew we were here."
Ethan stopped five paces from the fire. Enough distance to bolt. Or be shot.
"You're Nightingale."
A beat.
The man froze.
"Where did you hear that name?"
Ethan's voice was steady.
"My name is Ethan Winters. My parents were part of Nightingale. David and Mira Winters."
Silence fell like a blade.
The man's eyes widened.
The woman swore under her breath.
And for the first time in fifteen years, Ethan saw recognition.
Real, human recognition.
The man lowered his weapon slowly.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "It's you."
Behind the trees, Joel readied his rifle.
And Ellie, heart racing, watched the world tilt on its axis.