My gut had enough of cold wind whistling through the floor slats. Right behind my wool glove bunk, an empty rectangular mint tin lay half-open in the grit, rattling against the brickwork every time a draft blew up. I marched over, booted the hinged lid shut with one solid stomp, and shoved it flush beneath the glove's wrist cuff to block the lower draft. Leaned back against the brick wall, arms folded over my chest with both sai locked in their sheaths. The rattle stopped. The landing is dark, silent, and entirely mine.