Y/n woke up to the sound of wind howling against the window. The glass was frosted over, a thick layer of ice crystallized at the corners, obscuring the world outside. Everything in the small room was covered in a thin layer of frost—the blanket, the pillow, the furniture.

Outside, the world was white. The streets of Musutafu were buried under what must have been several meters of snow. The buildings stood like silent tombstones, their windows dark and lifeless. No smoke rose from chimneys. No lights flickered in the distance. Just endless, dead, frozen white.

The heater in the corner sputtered weakly, emitting a thin stream of warm air that did little against the bitter cold. Y/n could see their own breath with every exhale, a white puff that hung in the air before dissipating.

Five days. Five days since the last ration drop. Five days of living off of canned beans and melted snow. Five days of silence—no radio, no television, no contact with the outside world.

And then, a knock at the door.

Not the wind. Not the settling of snow. A knock. Three sharp raps, loud and insistent against the frozen wood.

The silence that followed was deafening.