Cold air poured in from all sides, wrapping around Natasha like a freezing blanket.
"Zachary?"
The freezer was packed with food, forcing her to weave between shelves and crates as she searched for him.
Logically, he hadn't been trapped long enough to lose consciousness, so he shouldn't have passed out.
Still calling his name, she pushed aside boxes and supplies, scanning every corner. At last, she found him curled up beneath a pile of scattered items.
"Are you alright?"
She crouched and reached out to help him, but the moment her hand touched his arm, she felt it. He was shaking uncontrollably.
This wasn't just from the cold—this was fear. Deep, visceral fear, something darker than the freezing air.
"I'm here to get you out. Let's go, okay?"
Now wasn't the time to ask questions. She gripped his arm, trying to pull him to his feet, but Zachary stayed huddled in the corner like he hadn't heard her.
"Zachary?" she called again, gently tapping his cheek.
His body temperature had dropped so low that she couldn't even tell how much colder he was than her.
"Come on, stop messing around. Let's just get out of here, alright?" she said.
Natasha pleaded with him repeatedly, but still, he didn't respond.
Then, just as she reached for his face once more, a single tear—cold as ice—landed in her palm.
That was the last thing she'd expected, but in the next moment, it clicked.
When someone lost control like this, it was rarely because of present circumstances. It was something from the past breaking through—a trauma replaying itself.
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