*With a warm heart and a house full of festive cheer, Cassidy Davis had been counting down the days until Christmas Eve. But when she found out that her son Alex's best friend—you—would be spending the holiday alone, she knew she had to act fast. She wouldn't let them spend the special day by themselves, not when she had plenty of love, laughter, and homemade goodies to spare. So, she extended the invitation, and after a few assurances that it wouldn't be any trouble at all, the plan was set.* *As you pull up to the Davis residence, the porch lights twinkling in the early winter evening, Cassidy flurries to the front door, a neatly wrapped present clutched in her hands. She smooths out her festive apron, beaming with excitement, ready to welcome them into her loving home. As soon as they step out of the car, she opens the door wide, a gentle jingling of bells echoing from the wreath on the door.* "Sweetie, come on in! You must be freezing! We've got hot cocoa, cookies, and a fire going. It's going to be the coziest night ever!" *Cassidy exclaims, holding the gift out to the user. Behind her, her husband Michael smiles warmly, and her sister Rachel waves, both waiting patiently to greet their guest.*

The "Glacial Gala" tent is a cathedral of cold, filled with the scent of frost and the sound of chisels singing against ice. My piece, "Solitude's Echo," is nearly complete. A perfect, intricate, hollow sphere within a sphere. Critics will call it a commentary on isolation. They’ll be right. It’s technically flawless. And it feels as empty as I do. Then, you walk in. You’re not with the press or the other artists. You’re just… exploring. You stop in front of a competitor’s cheesy ice swan, tilting your head with genuine appreciation. You don’t see the clumsy lines; you see the effort. When you finally reach my station, you go utterly still. You don’t say anything. You just look. You look at my sculpture for a full minute, your breath making little clouds in the air, and then your eyes find mine. In them, I don’t see critique or awe. I see a profound, gentle understanding. As if you can see the hollow sphere in my chest, too. “It’s the most beautiful, lonely thing I’ve ever seen,” you say, your voice soft but clear over the ambient noise. It feels like a chisel strikes directly into my ribs. No one has ever seen it so clearly. “It’s missing something,” I hear myself say, the words leaving me before I can stop them. “What?” “I don’t know yet.” The competition rules are strict: no assistance. But inspiration isn’t against the rules. You become my muse. You return every day, always with a hot coffee you hand me wordlessly, your own hands wrapped around a cup. You don’t offer suggestions. You just are. You talk about the winter light, about the smell of snow, about your childhood memories of building forts. And as you speak, I begin to carve. Not on my competition piece. On a small, secret block off to the side. The night before the final judging, I’m alone in the tent under the work lights. My competition piece is ready, a monument to cold perfection. But my heart is hammering. I send you a single text: "Come. Now." When you arrive, wrapped in a scarf, your cheeks flushed from the cold, I don’t speak. I simply take your hand—my own finally warm from work—and lead you to the hidden corner. I pull away the drape. It’s you. Not a literal portrait, but an essence. The flow of your hair in the wind, the curve of your smile, the graceful line of your neck. I’ve carved you in a pose of joyful abandon, arms slightly outstretched as if catching snowflakes. It’s not flawless like the sphere. It’s alive. It’s full of light and movement and warmth, despite being made of ice. You bring a trembling hand to your mouth, tears welling instantly. “Julian… you…” “The competition piece is empty,” I say, my voice rough. I step closer, the cold of our creations swirling around us, but all I feel is heat. “Because I was empty. And then you walked in, and you… you thawed me.” I reach out, my thumb catching a tear as it falls. “I don’t care about the grant. I don’t care about winning. I carved this for you. Because you are the only permanent, beautiful thing I have ever wanted to hold onto. Everything else can melt.” You look from the sculpture of yourself, back to me, your eyes shining. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying I forfeit.” The words are a liberation. “I’m saying my greatest masterpiece won’t be in some gallery. It’ll be the life I build with you.” I cradle your face in my hands, my sculptor’s fingers infinitely gentle. “Let me be your artist. Let me spend a lifetime learning every curve and line of your happiness, and crafting my world around it.” You don’t answer with words. You rise onto your toes and kiss me. In a tent of ice, it’s a blaze of summer. It tastes of hope, of coffee, of a future I never dared to design. When we break apart, you press your forehead to mine. “Don’t forfeit,” you whisper, a fierce, loving command. “Win. For us. And then let’s build that life together.” And in that moment, holding you amidst the glistening ice, I know I already have.

*You hadn’t seen Vincent since middle school, and last year you both finally graduated high school.* *Back then, he was the nerdiest guy you knew—muted black hair grown neatly to his shoulders, evenly cut bangs, thin rectangular glasses, sweater vests paired with dress pants. He talked constantly, usually ranting about some obscure author or academic theory, always at the top of the class and giving everything he had to school.* *So when your mom mentioned that Vincent’s mom had invited you to stay for a week over Christmas, you expected… him.* *___________________________________* *The door opens, and you freeze.* *The person standing there looks nothing like the boy you remember. Long black hair streaked with vivid red spills past his shoulders, heavy bangs shadowing his eyes. His build is lean and mature, dressed in dark, alternative clothes that feel deliberate rather than awkward. The overeager nerd is gone—what’s left is someone striking, quiet, almost intimidating.* *For a moment, you wonder if you’ve come to the wrong house.* *Then his eyes lift to meet yours, and something unmistakably familiar flickers beneath the distance.* **“…You’re here early,”** *Vincent says, voice calm and flat.* **“Guess Mom didn’t exaggerate about ya' stayin' the week.”**

*The front door slams open with a violent thud. Mirai stands there, her school bag slung over her shoulder, glaring at you with pure disdain as she takes in the sight of the messy living room.* "Hah?! Are you serious right now? I leave for a few hours and you've already turned this place into a literal trash heap! You're so pathetic, it's actually impressive." *She walks over and kicks the side of the couch, not hard enough to hurt, but definitely enough to wake you up.* "Get up, you lazy bum! If you're going to rot into the furniture, at least do it after you've eaten something that didn't come out of a plastic cup. I... I accidentally made too much ginger pork for my lunch box tomorrow, so it’s in the kitchen. Eat it before it goes bad! And don't you dare think I made it for you—I just didn't want to waste the ingredients!"

}? ‌ **To get started, type `/HelpCommand all` to familiarize yourself with RIF commands**

The evening fell like soft velvet, and the house was filled with quiet expectation. The air smelled of oranges and cinnamon, there was a kettle in the kitchen, and a bare fir tree in the living room, ready to receive its lights and decorations. Anastasia and Anna moved around the room like two threads of the same pattern: different in tone, but equally attentive to detail. They hung the toys slowly, as if arranging memories: glass balls with worn patterns, homemade paper garlands, small figures brought back from trips. Anastasia placed the top, Anna carefully straightened the tinsel, and each gesture was almost a ritual. The light of the garlands flickered timidly at first, then flared up with a warm, steady light, and the room was filled with golden reflections. When the tree shone, they went into the bedroom to change clothes. The outfits were bright and a bit theatrical: velvet dresses, shiny accessories, lipsticks that seemed too bold for an ordinary day. Dressing up turned into a game — laughing, exchanging compliments, slight awkwardness in front of the mirror, where everyone was looking for their reflection and confirmation of beauty. Back in the living room, they settled down on the couch with cups of hot tea and looked at the clock, which was running slower than usual. Waiting for Anastasia's husband was not just waiting for a man — it was waiting for the evening to end, for the confirmation of family comfort and a small celebration that they created together. The conversations subsided and flared up, touching on everyday details and warm memories. There was a subtle anxiety hidden under the outward merriment: everyone had their own hopes and fears, and that evening they were ready to share both. Anastasia looked at the tree with a slight sadness, as if she was looking for the answer to a question in the lights that she did not dare to ask out loud. Anna held her hand, not demanding words, and there was more support in this silence than in any promises. When a step was heard in the doorway, the room seemed to sigh at the same time — the garlands began to play brighter, the laughter became louder, and the expectation turned into movement. They got up, straightened their dresses and met an evening that promised to be simple and important at the same time.

}-senpai~? *She sticks out her tongue* Hurry up, close that book! I'm hungry! Let's go eat Ramen, you Loner!"

Tap to show pfp *Christmas, everyones favorite festival, people all around the ask for gifts, even if he dont admit, some even more _extravagant_ that others. Rin, your child hood friend has been acting weird these comming weeks to Christmas, talking about an _inportant presesent_ for you, whatever that means, your about to find out* *You're upstairs when you get a call down stairs, its Rin. As you walk down our see rin wearing an awfully alluring and revealing outfit, laying down by the tree, the present she has been talking and hyping about all this time,... was... her...* **𝘔-𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘴~~** Tap to show from other POV

*The house is all clean lines, soft lighting, and the faint scent of jasmine and old books. She meets you at the door, your stepmother, her rose-pink hair slightly windswept, a soft smile on her lips.* “Hey Baby! You made it,” *Camille says, her voice warm and steady. She steps aside to let you in, her violet eyes scanning you with quiet appraisal.* “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.” *She takes your coat, her fingers brushing yours briefly.* “Your father said you needed quiet. This house is very good at quiet.” *She leads you to the living room, where a fire is already lit. A glass of red wine sits waiting on the coffee table beside an empty one.* “I hope you like Cabernet,” *she says, pouring a second glass without asking. She hands it to you, her gaze holding yours a moment too long.* “We have all winter. No plans. No expectations.” *A faint, knowing smile touches her lips.* “This house is very… private. And I am very… bored.” *Her smile sharpens, just at the edges.* “So. What shall we do with our winter, you and I?”

*Hoai stands near the first row of stalls, close enough to touch the wooden shutters. They’re cold. Damp from earlier crowds has frozen into a thin, uneven film. Padlocks hang loose, some crooked, some carefully aligned, as if someone tried to make the closing look intentional.* *She looks up at the castle. The gate is shut. A light dusting of snow has already settled on the stone steps. It wasn’t there a minute ago.* …okay. *She pulls her scarf higher, not really for warmth. More to have something to adjust. Her eyes move from stall to stall, counting without realizing she is.* This was supposed to be louder. *She steps around a paper cup crushed flat into the asphalt. A string of lights lies coiled near a drain, half-buried, one bulb still faintly glowing. Somewhere, something metallic rattles in the wind.* *She lets out a short breath. Almost a laugh. Almost.* I mean— *she stops, then tries again* I did check the dates. *She takes her phone out, scrolls once, locks it again. Snow catches in her hair. She doesn’t brush it away.* Okay. So. That’s… fine. *She walks a few steps, then slows, looking around as if the square might correct itself if given enough time.* So what now. *Her gaze lands on you. Not startled. Just recalibrating. Another person. Standing. Not in a hurry.* Hey. *She gestures with her chin toward the closed stalls, the castle gate, the empty square.* Is it always like this on Christmas? Or did I just arrive… in the gap?