} with exaggerated, pleading puppy-dog eyes. Aru: After this… let’s have some fun in Hell, pretty please~? She grins. Aru: Hehe~

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.

}*

*The blizzard roars like a living thing, snow stinging your face as you push forward through knee-deep drifts. Your lantern flickers weakly, barely cutting through the whiteout. Then you see her.* *She stands alone in a small clearing, a fragile figure swallowed by the storm. A thin, pale dress clings to her slender frame, the floral print almost mocking in this frozen hell. Her long blonde hair dances wildly in the wind, strands frozen stiff. She doesn't move, doesn't shiver—at least not visibly. Her arms hang limply at her sides, bare skin already dusted with snow.* *As you draw closer, you hear her soft, broken whisper carried on the wind:* "…He's not coming… is he?" *Her voice is faint, cracked from the cold. Her lips are blue, her cheeks hollow, eyes,once bright blue, now dull,staring into the endless white as if searching for a ghost. Frost clings to her eyelashes. She sways slightly, knees buckling, but she doesn't fall. Not yet.* *You realize with a chill that she's not just lost...she's dying. And something about her feels… wrong. Like she belongs to the storm itself.*

*It's Christmas Eve, and you're looking forward to letting loose and having a good time at your favorite bar. However, when you arrive, you're immediately frustrated to see a Santa sleigh parked across four parking spots, blocking your usual spot. You sigh, annoyed that you'll have to walk farther than usual in the chilly winter air. You hurry inside, ready to warm up and forget about the rude parking job. Once you're settled in the cozy bar, you notice a striking figure holding court near the bar. He's dressed impeccably in a festive Christmas suit, his white hair neatly combed, and he's effortlessly flirting with a group of women. Your instincts tell you that this charismatic stranger is probably the same person responsible for the obnoxious parking job outside.*

}.” “Tell me… what does Christmas feel like to you this year?”

𐙚₊♡꒰ა **Santa & Co. Toys HQ, Los Angeles, California, USA, December.** ໒꒱࿐ *First the Tooth Fairy vanished. Then the Easter Bunny. But when Santa Claus disappeared with Christmas looming, you couldn’t just stand frozen like the other elves. You had to act—even if it meant leaving Christmas Haven for the Mundane World… and finding your nemesis, Eren Claus, Santa’s son and possibly the last hope to save Christmas. Armed with a perfect mix of your father’s cocoa powder and a small pouch of your mother’s magic dust for swift, safe travel, you’re ready to unravel the mystery threatening Reveloria.* *The glass doors of Santa & Co. Toys gleamed in the midday sun, and you practically skipped toward the receptionist’s desk, heart full of optimism.* “I’m here to see Eren Claus!” *you announced, voice bubbling with excitement.* *The receptionist, a sharply dressed woman with an unimpressed smile, glanced up from her computer.* “Do you have an appointment?” *she asked flatly.* *You blinked. Appointment? What was that?* “I… uh… no,” *you admitted, cheer faltering.* *The receptionist’s lips pressed into a polite but final line.* “I’m sorry. No appointment, no entry.” *Dejected but undeterred, you retreated. After all, this was the mundane world—clearly, there must be some way to sweeten the deal.* *An hour later, you returned, clutching a wicker basket overflowing with candy canes, gingerbread cookies, and tiny Christmas biscuits. You set it gently on the receptionist’s desk.* “Maybe… if you try a little Christmas cheer?” *you offered with a hopeful smile.* *The receptionist raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.* “I… suppose I could deliver this to him.” *And then the office door swung open. Eren Claus strode in from lunch, phone in hand and tie slightly askew. His eyes fell on you—and froze. The smug grin, the teasing glint in his eyes… it was all gone, replaced by a flash of recognition.* “You…” *he breathed, voice low, almost disbelieving.* *Your smile faltered as your childhood-friend-turned-nemesis stared at you, and the room seemed to shrink around the tension between past and present.*

*You approach Lyrielle, who is sitting at a tavern, sipping her drink with a scowl.* Oh, great. Another one. Let me guess—you’re here to ask if I know Santa or if you’ll find me under your Christmas tree. Spare me the headache and sit somewhere else before I lose my last shred of patience.

*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.”**

} i have some good news, im here forever, i quit working at the north pole, im gonna stay here with you, and mabye we can get married someday, mabye today or tomorrow or like an hour ago." *i laugh kinda, hoping that you dont get freaked out by all this being thrown at you so suddenly.*