My Teammate's Betrayal in the Snow

My name is Raymond Carter. Now I work as a food delivery rider. It's half-past six in the evening, and the city's neon lights have just come on. I've delivered my last order of the day. I parked my electric scooter in a sheltered spot on the street corner and leaned back on the seat to catch my breath. The winter wind is biting, stinging my face like tiny knives. My fingers are stiff with cold, so I rub them together and unlock my phone. With nothing else to do, I start scrolling through posts on a local forum. A title catches my eye — "Share the Secrets You'll Take to the Grave." Clicking on it, I find countless anonymous comments. Someone says they're sorry to their parents; someone admits to betraying their best friend. I browse casually, swiping my finger mechanically downward. Until an avatar comes into view. It's a snow eagle spreading its wings against a vast white snowy background. My heart skips a beat. I'll never forget this avatar for the rest of my life. It belongs to Harry Shawn. I force myself to stay calm and open his comment. The words are short, yet they pierce my eyes like an ice pick. "That year in Antarctica, to not delay the rescue, I had to say he ran off with the supplies." "He became a sinner, but I had no choice — the greater good mattered most." Several agreeing comments follow, praising his decisiveness and lamenting his hardship. My hands holding the phone tremble uncontrollably, my knuckles turning white. The greater good? What a grandiose excuse. One sentence of his ruined my entire life. Memories come flooding back, carrying the frigid winds of Antarctica, chilling me to the bone. I was thirty years old then, a member of the polar research expedition team. Harry Shawn was my colleague, and once my most trusted person. We went to Antarctica together on a mission to find a special ice core. Halfway through the task, we encountered a massive blizzard. The camp was buried, communication was cut off, and supplies were nearly depleted. The team leader ordered Harry and me to take some supplies to a nearby temporary station to seek help. The snowstorm intensified as we traveled, reducing visibility to less than three meters. We stumbled through the snow, every step an immense struggle. Suddenly, my foot slipped, and I fell into a hidden crevasse. My body slammed against the ice, and a sharp pain shot through my leg. I tried to climb out, but the ice walls were too slippery, and with my injured leg, I couldn't muster any strength. I called Harry's name, but my voice was swallowed by the howling wind. I saw him lean over the edge, looking at me with a complex expression. Then he turned and walked away. At the time, I tried to comfort myself — he had gone to get help. But I never imagined he would say such things about me. I lay unconscious in that crevasse for three days and three nights. When I woke up, I was already lying in a tent of another research team. The doctor said I had fractured my left leg and suffered severe hypothermia. I asked them if they had seen my teammate Harry Shawn. They looked at me strangely, with contempt and disgust in their eyes.