Dan steps in one more time.

Suddenly Maeve feels herself fly forward, Sim lunging into her from behind. She lands hard on her knees and then they are both on her, Maeve in the middle as the two men grab at her, rip at her frozen hand. There’s a dull thud as Dan’s fist connects and Sim is thrown back. Maeve seizes the moment to push away, but Dan catches her elbow and wrenches it back, holding her there—then Sim’s hand closes tight on her wrist, twisting.

He’s trying to aim the gun, Maeve realizes suddenly, his fingers over hers; she braces herself with her good leg, fighting him, trying to force the muzzle to the ground as Sim works to slide the gun out of her damaged hand. When Dan lunges in again, his fingernails tearing at her arm, she screams and brings her teeth down into his hand and there’s a blast.

Dan pitches forward into the snow.

Maeve, suddenly free, reels back; the gun hits the ice and skids away. She is shaking, her bloody hand flat and open now. Her own ragged breath, her heart pounding in her ears.

Sim, still on his feet, stares down at her from above. Then he leans in and grabs the weapon and fires. But it only clicks. Empty.

“Maeve—” There’s a moment of silence as he looks at the gun, lying inert in his own hand now, then at Dan on the ground.

His whole face changing.

“Maeve,” he says again. “What did you do?”

Maeve slides back along the ice.

For a moment, she really doesn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

She shifts again and the ice sheet underneath her slips; she can see all the places where it’s cracked and broken now, the long furrow widening as Sim moves carefully around on top of it, edging his way toward her. When Maeve moves, it shifts again.

“That wasn’t me, Maeve.”

Maeve looks over to where Dan slumps, a wide, dark stain moving out from his broken torso. Close range, the blast has blown his chest open.

“You—you wouldn’t let go,” Sim says.

Maeve looks at Dan again and her head spins. It’s hard to focus. There’s so much white.

“But it’s okay. No one will ever know. I promise. It’s over now.” Sim crouches down, watching her as she tries to slide away from him. “We’re not getting out of here alive, Maeve. Don’t you see? This is the end of our story. Come with me now—don’t ruin it. They’ll never find us here, in the snow. We’ll be buried. But back at the lodge, in the gallery—think of it. Think of their faces. They’ll find us in the gallery. That will be our legacy.”

There’s a beat as the horror of what he’s saying sinks in. This is the end of our story. Maeve sees the whole narrative spooling out like rope. First his quiet attention, then a growing obsession. Now, stranded for days, he’s devised a way to make them both immortal.