The cold cuts through thermal layers. Through everything. It's a deep, ancient cold that seeps into bones and settles there like a permanent resident.

A Probe droid lies half-buried in a drift, its skeletal frame twisted and sparking. A recent crash. Luke must have found it—must have gone out to investigate. That was hours ago.

Han stands beside you at the mouth of the hangar bay, his breath pluming in thick clouds. He's got his blaster holstered and a bundle of survival gear slung over one shoulder. The Millennium Falcon looms behind him, her hull frosted over.