Aiden was used to cold. He was born in North Ireland; he lived most of his life in the windy city. Most of his fondest memories were formed at times when he could see his breath. His first kiss, his first time, his first everything was in cold weather. He did a lot of bad things in the freeze for the first time, too. The first time he shot someone, it was snowing. The first time he stole a car, he was shivering. He didn't like the cold, but he didn't complain about it, either. Now, here he was, sitting in a car, all these years later.

He was done. He'd avenged Lena's death. Lucky Quinn was dead. His family was safe in St. Louis. Crime was almost at zero. Now there was nothing to do.

He was just sitting there, with his arms crossed on the wheel and his head buried in those arms. The radio was on, playing some commercial about a sports drink, or some unnecessary thing. The music was about to start again, when a weather bulletin started.

"This is WKZ. The National Weather Service has issued a wind chill warning for Chicago starting at ten, tomorrow morning. An area high pressure is expected to move down from Canada, bringing with it sunny skies and frigid temperatures. The high for is tomorrow, thirty, with temperature dropping throughout the day. Thursday, we're expecting a high of only six, with a low temp of three below. Friday, high minus twelve with wind chills into the negative thirties. We expect those sorts of gelid temperatures well into next week. Thursday, at least. Now we go back to your music."

Aiden, by the end of the forecast, had made up his mind. The fox was going to stay in his den. He needed food, not the junk he usually ate, but real food. He lifted his head off the steering wheel, and put the car in drive. It was only ten o'clock, so he decided to go to the supermarket immediately. He couldn't remember the last time he went to a supermarket. He picked up what he thought was most necessary: a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon, two packs of bottled water, several packs of batteries of all sizes, a few frozen pizzas, and a book of crossword puzzles. He approached the register the only register open. The cashier, a little old lady, smiled at him.

"Has anyone told you that you are the spitting image of the vigilante?"

"I get that a lot, miss."

"I like him, but he dresses real weird. Don't ya think?" she inquired, as she scanned the groceries.

"I guess, he dresses in those trench coats to look cool," he said quite amused with this old lady. "What're you doing here by yourself at night?"

"Well, honey," she started, "I own this store, and with my friend, Sig, protecting me here and in the back."

"Sig?" he asked with a smirk.

"Mr. Sig Sauer, of course," she said patting side. She had scanned the last item. "That'll be $45 on the nose, sir."

Mr. Pearce pulled out three twenties, and let her keep the change. He went back to his car to go back to the bunker.

The bunker. He hated the bunker now. It was warm, but that's all it was. He started to put away his groceries as he pondered what the bunker meant. When Clara was killed, it felt empty, dead. Soon after, T-Bone left to live his life wherever. It was just him. Hell, even some fixers to kill, would fill the void. He wished that boredom was the only problem. He was alone. He was lonely. He wanted to be with someone. No intimacy, just company. The presence of another body, another soul was all he yearned for. He wanted to talk to someone. He couldn't; he alienated himself. He alienated those he loved with his… his life. That's why his sister left.

He promised himself that he wouldn't contact Nicky. He wanted her, the both of them, safe. No matter what he told himself, he still blamed himself. His life was dangerous, and he knew it. After that day, his life was filled with 'what ifs'. He knew hypotheticals would not change anything. Lena is dead. It was his fault, period. Clara is dead. It was his fault, period. He thought that he had let himself grieve. He thought the feeling of bereavement was over. This polar vortex only showed what had happened to him. His heart had grown cold over the years. He didn't realize it, but that's what happened. He stopped caring about people. Sure, he was the vigilante, but that was selfish. He only did that to quiet his conscience.

That worked… for a while.

Now he felt guilty about all the cops he killed. They were just doing what they were paid to do. He felt guilty about all the fixers he killed. Granted, they weren't good people. They killed people, but they had no clue what they were getting into when signed up for it. He felt bad about the citizens struck by debris from explosions or stray bullets. He always wired some money to the grieving family, but he knew no amount of money was enough to solve loss. He sent $250,000 to the Lilles. Of course, Badboy17 was not an ordinary citizen, but Aiden was completely at fault.

Now he was alone. There was no one there for him. He knew he forsook them all first. Suddenly, Aiden's phone rang. He didn't notice it, at first. RING. Now, his ears perked up. RING. The phone showed a number that was unrecognized.

"Hello, who's this," he asked bewildered.

"Aiden, it's me."

"Nicky, I'm so glad to hear your voice, but I thought we agreed not to contact each other. It has to be important, it's twelve o'clock," he said with the tone of cconcwrn lacing his words.

"No, it's just that, I heard, about that Arctic air moving down into the Windy City. We're supposed to get it down here too. So, don't freeze to death trying to save everyone, okay. We love you, and we want you to be safe."

"Tell Jacks… tell him… I love him," his voice was a little wobbly.

"Okay, I will. I love you too, big brother. Be safe," she said.

"I love you, too," he almost whispered it.

He sat down on the couch, eyes wetter than he would ever admit. He resolved his mind again. The fox is going to move to protect his family. But, how would he leave Chicago quietly?