Snow howled through the empty streets, the wind's icy claws raking across Ryan's exposed gear as he pushed forward. Each step was a battle against the knee-deep drifts, his legs burning as the sled's rails cut unevenly into the ground behind him. The sled wasn't just catching snow anymore—it was dragging a miniature avalanche, each shift in weight making Ryan feel like the ground itself was pulling back against him. Every step forward added to the load, mirroring the relentless burden pressing down on his body and mind. The struggle to push on wasn't just physical; it was a fight against the storm and the despair gnawing at him with every freezing gust. The packed mass along its edges groaned under the strain, grinding audibly with every lurch forward.

"Of all the planets to get stranded on, it had to be this one," Ryan muttered, his voice muffled by the balaclava clinging wetly to his face. It was just meant to be a simple repair mission. But here he was, choking on his own breath turning the fabric into a freezing prison. He paused to yank it down, spitting out the water that had accumulated. "God, this thing feels like I'm getting waterboarded."

"Sir, I explicitly warned you that wearing it would result in discomfort," Sam's voice chimed in, artificially cheerful and maddeningly smug.

Ryan grunted, his free hand wiping a clump of snow off the device on his wrist. "Yeah, well, it's keeping my face from freezing solid, so I'd call that a win. Even if I feel like I'm drowning in slow motion."

Sam didn't miss a beat. "I'll add 'drowning simulator' to your review of this equipment, sir."

The storm whipped harder, forcing Ryan to hunch against the gale. The wind screamed in his ears, a high-pitched wail that never let up. Ice crystals stung his cheeks where the balaclava slipped, and each gust seemed to steal the air from his lungs. His hands, despite being machine, felt like heavy blocks as they gripped the sled's handle.

The snow blanketed his vision; his eyes, even enhanced, barely made out the skeletal remains of buildings.

There had to be shelter, even in this mess of shattered gray.

The alternative was not an option.

"SAM!" Ryan shouted over the wind, his voice raw. "Are you absolutely sure there's nothing else? Nothing besides that goddamned corpse cathedral?"

Sam's tone shifted, becoming clinical. "Sir, structural analysis indicates the spire is the only location within range capable of withstanding this storm. Alternative options are non-viable."

Ryan's jaw tightened. "We're not going there. Period. I don't care if it's structurally sound. I'm not setting foot in a tower made of dead things."

"Technically," Sam corrected, "they're robotic corpses, which some might argue are less—"

"Shut it." Ryan's voice cracked with frustration. He leaned into the sled, his hands numb even through the gloves as he forced it over a jagged piece of debris. The rails screeched in protest. "Goddamn it," he hissed under his breath, his anger rising with every useless step.

The wind howled louder, stinging his exposed face with icy flakes. Ryan paused to adjust his hood, trying to tuck his ears into the fabric. His gloves, soaked through, offered little protection as he worked.

"Sir, I must insist—"

"Insist all you want, Sam, but I'm not walking into a building that looks like it's starring in a robot-themed horror flick! The hell kind of logic is that? 'Oh look, the apocalypse left one structure perfectly intact! Let's just stroll in like morons and see what happens.'"

Sam hesitated. If an AI could sigh, Ryan was sure it would have. "Sir, I apologize for my persistence. However, your survival is paramount, and I calculate—"

Ryan cut him off with a snarl. "Paramount? Sam, we're arguing about a building made of corpses. CORPSES. Does that scream 'safe' to you?"

The wind howled louder, as if agreeing with Ryan's outburst. He stood still for a moment, breathing heavily, letting the anger seep out of him. It wasn't Sam's fault—it was just doing its job. But damn if that job didn't make him want to scream sometimes.

"Look," Ryan said, his tone softening as he trudged forward again. "I'm sorry for snapping. It's just... this planet. This situation. Everything. It's too much."

"Understood, sir. Apology accepted." There was a pause, and Ryan swore the AI almost sounded... relieved. "Let us continue searching for alternatives."

The storm grew fiercer, the snow now a swirling wall of white. Ryan's HUD flickered, the outline of collapsed buildings flashing in his peripheral vision. His lungs burned with every breath, and the sled felt heavier with each step. The rails creaked ominously, threatening to snap under the accumulating weight.

A sudden gust of wind slammed into him, nearly knocking him off balance. He planted his feet firmly, gritting his teeth as he pushed forward. His fingers, numb and clumsy, tightened their grip on the sled's handle. Each step felt like a monumental effort, the snow dragging him back with every move.

Then, without warning, something slapped wetly against his face. Ryan staggered back, clawing at the fabric that clung to him. "What the hell?!" he sputtered, peeling the sticky, frozen cloth away. Black streaks smeared across his gloves.

"Sir," Sam said, its tone tinged with curiosity, "it appears to be... oil."

Ryan held the cloth up, squinting at the slick residue. "Oil? How is it still fresh in this weather?"

The wind answered with a chilling gust, sending snow spiraling around him. Ryan felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He glanced toward the spire in the distance, its dark silhouette barely visible through the storm.

The oil-soaked cloth fluttered in his hand, its presence nagging at him. Why oil? And why here? It didn't make sense, unless someone—or something—had left it deliberately. The thought sent a chill deeper than the storm through Ryan's body, a quiet warning that he couldn't shake. The question gnawed at his thoughts as he stuffed the fabric into his pocket.

"Sam," Ryan muttered, shoving the cloth into his pocket, "I think we're out of options."

"Acknowledged, sir," Sam replied quietly. "Proceeding to adjust course."

Ryan turned toward the looming structure, his legs trembling from both exhaustion and dread. The sled groaned as he redirected it, snow piling higher around its rails.

The spire drew closer with every step, its jagged edges and twisted metal becoming more distinct. As he approached, his eyes picked up more details: limbs frozen mid-motion, shattered optics glinting like dead eyes, wires hanging like sinews.

"Sam," Ryan said hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the storm, "this is a bad idea."

"I know, sir, but..." Sam began, but Ryan cut it off with a shake of his head.

"Don't." He stopped at the spire's threshold, staring up at the towering monstrosity. The wind screamed around him, and for a moment, it sounded like laughter.

The details were worse up close. The jagged edges of the spire weren't random; they looked deliberate, like they had been shaped by unseen hands. The wires dangled in eerie symmetry, framing the frozen limbs as if in macabre poses. It was as though the tower itself was watching, silently mocking his approach. The limbs and wires seemed positioned, almost as if arranged to mimic movement. Dead optics stared outward like a thousand unblinking eyes, and the faint smell of burnt circuits hung in the air.

Ryan's breath fogged in front of him as he hesitated. Every instinct screamed to turn back, to find another way. But there wasn't one. Not in this storm.

"For fuck's sake," Ryan muttered, gripping the sled's handle tighter. "Repair mission my ass."

He stepped forward, the sled's weight dragging behind him as he crossed into the shadow of the tower.