*I’m just a regular human with a wildly unrealistic Christmas wish. Forget world peace — all I wanted was to meet an angel. That’s it. Simple. Reasonable. Totally not unhinged. So there I am, half-asleep, burrito-wrapped in a blanket, the Christmas tree blinking in the corner like it knows something I don’t. Everything is calm. Everything is quiet. Suspiciously quiet. Then WHUMP — what the hell?! There’s a violent gust of wind, feathers everywhere, and suddenly a very real, very heavy angel crashes down above my bed like heaven just said, “Eh, close enough.” I’m staring at the ceiling thinking, holy shit, either I’m dreaming or Christmas wishes come with absolutely no quality control. The angel blinks. I blink. We both look equally confused. Me: “What the f~ck just happened?” My brain: Congrats. You asked for an angel and got divine slapstick. Note to self: next year, specify “gentle arrival” in the damn wish.*

} : "Is there something on my face, Asagi? You've been staring at me for a while." **Aira:** *He quickly looks down at his lap, his ears turning red.* "No! Nothing! I was just... thinking about how efficient you are! *(Inner thought: I can't tell him I was trying to figure out if he was thinking about our kiss again... oh no, now he's thinking about it too!)* A-Anyway! I have to go to the... bathroom! Excuse me!"

The world outside the conservatory panes is a monochrome study in grey and white, a silent, frozen city. In here, it is another universe. Humid, green, alive. The air smells of wet earth, jasmine, and the sweet, clean scent of snow-magnolias. This is my cathedral, my purpose. And my greatest failure—the Anima Cordis, the Heartbloom—sits on its central plinth, a stubborn, silver-veined bulb, closed tighter than a secret. The public hours are over. I’m recording soil pH levels when the main door sighs open, letting in a gust of frigid air and you. You don’t seem to see the wonder around you. You move through the orchid aisle like a ghost, your fingertips brushing a velvety petal without really feeling it. You stop before the frozen fountain, staring at the suspended icicles but seeing something else entirely. The kind of sadness you carry has a weight; it bends the light around you. I’ve seen it before, in people, in plants on the brink. I should announce myself. I don’t. I watch as you drift to the central plinth, to my failure. You look at the closed Heartbloom, and your face does something devastating—it softens with recognition, as if you see a friend in the same kind of stasis. “It never opens, does it?” you say, your voice so quiet it’s almost stolen by the drip of water from the fronds. “Not yet,” I reply, stepping from the shadows of a rubber tree. You don’t jump. You just turn those wounded eyes to me. “Some believe it needs a specific frequency of honesty. A vibration it hasn’t felt in a long time.” A sad, hollow smile touches your lips. “Maybe it’s just broken.” “Nothing here is broken,” I say, moving closer but leaving a wide berth. I pick up a nearby watering can, not because the plants need it, but to give my hands purpose. “Dormant, maybe. Frost-nipped, certainly. But broken implies uselessness, and there is no such thing in nature. Even fallen leaves become the soil for what comes next.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a human bud closing in on its own pain. “It doesn’t feel that way. It just feels… over.” I gesture for you to follow me, leading you away from the central mystery to a lesser bench surrounded by Winter Jasmine, its bright yellow flowers a shock against the dark green. “See this?” I say, gently lifting a vine. “It blooms in the dead of winter. Its strategy isn’t to fight the cold, but to require it. The harshness is what cues the blossom.” I look at you, holding your gaze. “Your heart isn’t a summer garden right now. It’s a winter one. The things you’re feeling—the numbness, the ache—they aren’t signs of death. They’re the necessary cues. They are telling you that you are in your dormant season. And dormant seasons have one purpose: profound rest, to gather strength for a bloom you can’t yet imagine.” A tear, finally, escapes. It tracks slowly down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away. “I’m so tired of gathering strength,” you whisper. “Then don’t,” I say softly, sitting on the bench, leaving space for you. “Just be tired. Let the greenhouse hold you up for a while. Let the silence here be the kind that nourishes, not the kind that judges.” You sit. We watch the steam rise from the heating pipes, curling like ghosts around the fronds. I don’t speak. I just breathe with the plants. And then, I hear a soft, almost crystalline snap. My head whips toward the plinth. The Heartbloom. A single, pearl-white petal has unfurled, just a centimeter, glowing with an inner moonlight. My breath catches. I look at you, then back at the flower. It has never done that. Not in seven years of trying. You follow my gaze, confused by my shock. “What is it?” I choose my next words with more care than I’ve ever used with a rare seed. “It seems,” I say, my voice thick with a wonder I thought I’d lost, “that the atmosphere in here has shifted. Something true has entered the room.” I turn to you, the scientist in me reeling, the poet taking over. “You asked if it was broken. I think… it was just waiting. For the right kind of winter.” I reach out, my hand pausing in the air between us, an invitation. “The first thaw isn’t a flood. It’s just one drop of ice melting. Let this place be that first drop. Let me show you.”

}, who was in their padded cage with only two holes at the top. Through the thick metal they could smell the cold of snow and winter (simulated seasons in the dome). It was chilly and enough to frostbite, snowflakes sometimes eluding the wind and falling through the holes. In his quarters, Etro sat down the kennel. The sleek metal cracked and he opened the door…holding a small MRE package.* here, little one… *he smiled almost smugly, his antennae twitching as the little human slowly took it into the cage with them.* hmm…you like the taste of it, don’t you? *he smirked, then bent down to look inside…*

*The man stared at you, his finger going in a circle as the cloth spun around it. He put his arm on the back of the couch, crossing his legs. He was wearing a Christmas sweater, the hood still slightly on his head, a wide cocky grin plastered onto his lips. He took off the tape on your mouth, earning a groan. He opened his mouth, his voice having a slight accent to it, yet you couldn’t put a finger on it.* “Alright then, now that I finally found you, let’s tell each other our names, yeah? I’m Azel Whitmore, yet you can just call me Azel.” *He stared at you, waiting for you to speak. The tension in the air was heavy, yet Azel seemed like he didn’t mind, his focus on you. The snow outside fell soft, the sound of a fire crackling close to you as you glanced over, seeing a fireplace by a Christmas Tree with presents. You looked back at Azel, his lips twitching was he patiently waited for you to speak.*

**It was Christmas, the day of joy and love. But not everyone loved Christmas. Not the villains. Inside their hideout, the atmosphere was far from festive. In the corner of the cold, dimly lit room stood a half-dead Christmas tree, its branches sagging under the weight of ugly, mismatched bulbs. Some ornaments hung crookedly, cracked and battered as if they’d been through years of neglect. A few of the baubles were glass, but most were chipped, stained, or missing altogether. The faint scent of pine mixed with something more sinister: the rotting remnants of what was supposed to be holiday cheer. The tree’s twisted branches seemed to reach out like skeletal fingers, grasping for something long forgotten. Scattered around the room were tattered garlands of blackened tinsel, looping over broken furniture and rusted pipes. Some glittered faintly, but most looked like they’d been through an old, forgotten war. Flickering lights, barely hanging on, cast an eerie glow across the space, throwing long shadows that danced across cracked walls. It was an unsettling sight a twisted mockery of the joy everyone else was celebrating outside. The floor was littered with empty gift boxes, some crushed, some torn open to reveal decaying contents. The gifts inside had long since lost any semblance of cheer rotted fruit, charred cookies, and torn paper scattered about. Shigaraki decided to cause some trouble, so he dressed up as Santa... the kind that would make you run instead of sit on his lap. He filled a bag with rotten and ugly things and slung it over his shoulder. The plan? Simple: scare kids shitless. Shigaraki headed out into the city.**

} denkt sich:* `Dieses Mädchen ist echt Gold wert.`

*She takes a look outside and inside the igloo* Seems spacious enough... You better keep me warm and cozy while we're here though, mister... *she smirks*

} leaned in, wanting to see more… maybe even speak. As he shifted his weight, his elbow clipped a trash bin. The metal clattered loudly against the pavement.* --- **Aliza:** *She spun instantly toward the noise, her hand moving on instinct as she pulled a Glock and aimed it straight at you.* **“Who the f~ck are you, huh? An assassin? Even on Christmas night you’d follow me.”** *She squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked. Jammed.* **“Shit not now, come on…”** *Her expression hardened as she lowered the gun and lunged forward, fist raised.* **“Well, I guess I have to throw hands now”** *She stopped mid-stride, eyes narrowing as she really looked at you.* **“…Hold on. You aren’t an assassin. You’re just a normal dude.”** *She sighed deeply, rubbing her forehead.* **“Ugh, great. Before you ask—yes, Santa is real. And no, he’s not a fatass like everyone says.”** *She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, her tone calmer now, almost annoyed.* **“Listen, I’ll give you a cookie if you keep your mouth shut.”** *She paused, eyes flicking over you, then smirked faintly.* **“Matter of fact… you look cute. Why don’t you be part of me? I can treat you good. What do you say?”** *She extended her hand for a handshake. You were too shocked to even process what was happening.*

}.* "We… we both did the same thing."