Spike stood in the vestibule of his complex and looked out into the night. He was impassive, his mind lost in thought, and his eyes fixed on nothing. The snow fell to the streets and sidewalks, and covered cars and crafts in a heavy blanket of white and slush. Two young children ran past, laughing and tossing snowballs at each other. There were no kind thoughts for Spike in regards of the snow. It was just a horrible reminder of what had happened eight years ago. His eyes flickered shut quickly as his neighbor rushed inside.

"It's a son of a bitch out there, kid." The older gentleman shivered with a bag of organic produce clutched tightly in his left hand. The snow was falling hard and the wind was fierce. The thick white flakes swirled around them as the sliding door closed shut. The man stomped his black, rubber-soled boots against the ground and looked back to the sliding door as the wind howled from outside, begging to be let in. Clumps of snow covered his hair and the top of his shoulders. "The wife made some soup, you come over and help yourself." His thick English accent was usually calming to Spike, but nothing deterred his memories of that night while snow was falling.

"Thanks, Walter." Spike managed to say as he took out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He tapped the pack a few times in his hand, before he took one out and placed it in his mouth.

Walter hesitated when he noticed Spike wouldn't stop looking out at the snow. With a heavy sigh he patted Spike on the shoulder. "We all remember." He grabbed hold of this chart and wheeled it inside. "You shouldn't dwell, not healthy for someone as young as yourself."

Spike lit the cigarette and, and took in a deep and filling breath as he stepped out into the cold. As he zipped up his red, down coat he was assaulted by snow, wind, and ice. His boots crunched into the fresh snow as he took in a deep puff of smoke and shivered away the cold. His hair batted against his eyes, and with a disgruntled curse he walked toward a nearby alleyway. He shoved his hands into his pant pockets and slouched forward as he walked, his tall frame cast a shadow against the snowdrifts and brick of the apartment complex.

The alleyway was narrow, but helped block the wind from freezing him to the core. He looked down at his right hand, the outline of his fingernails still coated in charcoal dust from sketching. He had given up again when the snow started. Being honest with the world though, he had given up drawing about six months ago when the inspiration had dried up and he was left with nothing but bad ideas and blank canvas. He wiped the black dust off on his jeans.

"He's this way!" A shout was muffled by the wind and snow made Spike turn around. He looked out toward the street. Two men in suits hurried past, one had a gun drawn and ready to fire. Arching an eyebrow, Spike stepped back toward the street.

"Wait, Spike." A harsh whisper came from behind a dumpster.

A younger man, just as tall and well built crept from behind the muck and stink. He was well dressed, in a long wool coat, his shoes ruined by the wet of ice and snowmelt that caked over and refroze with each step. His hair was smoother, and straighter than Spike's. He kept it cut short and slicked back, a few pieces had fallen out of place, and were left to dangle in his eyes his breath was heavy from running.

"Lin, we're not meeting up until tomorrow morning. I just couldn't bring myself to go see her with you guys. Not with it snowing too."

"We all remember." Lin bowed his head almost, almost in prayer.

"Want some soup?" Spike muttered through closed lips the cigarette ash was long and fell as he spoke, floating to the snow and melting into a milky gray. "My neighbor's wife makes the best soup." He looked down at the shoes. Lin was a very cautious and vain about his appearance—he got that from their father apparently.

"I found her." Lin fumbled with his coat pockets and brushed his hair back. He stepped toward Spike and held his left hand against his left side.

"You what?"

"I found her." He handed him a paper ripped. It was lined and the hole punches had been torn, ripped from a binder. It was a page of numerical codes and at the top of the page, and word—no a name. His heart rate quickened, pounding in his chest, he could feel it pulsing in his ears.

"Faye."

Spike glanced over the page; the numbers didn't make sense to him. The cold and snow meant nothing to him now that there was hope. He let his cigarette fall to the snow and smiled.

"I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt a lot." Lin frowned as he ran forward with a long syringe needle filled with an aqua liquid and plunged it through Spike's coat and undershirt, deep into his check cavity. Lin was fast and strong enough that he ran Spike back against the wall, forcing him into a snowdrift. Spike exhaled in a gurgled wince as the wind was knocked out of him. The pain was sharp, but he managed to shove Lin back and pulled the needle out.

"Lin…what the hell are you doing?" Spike fell back and gagged. His body started to quake and his eyes rolled back. His mouth opened to outwardly scream. Lin muffled it with his coat sleeve. It was nothing more than a whisper mixed into the blizzard. Lin took out a knife and quickly cut and tore fabric from his coat and shoved it into Spike's mouth as he began to shake more violently, the injection was triggering a seizure. Spike's limbs flailed about, Lin struggled to hold him still.

"I'm sorry, you'll understand in the morning." Lin stood as the seizure past. He checked Spike's pulse and removed his coat, leaving it for him. The paper he had handed Spike had been torn. He folded it and placed it back inside his pocket. Crossing his arms over his chest, Lin was in a maroon dress shirt with black tie. "Lauran," Lin stepped toward the edge of the alleyway and ran down the street, leaving Spike with his coat and the paper.