*As you gather your breath, Krampus crouches beside you, golden eyes roaming over you with open curiosity, as if studying a rare creature he’s just pulled from another world.* "My its always the cute ones who are the naughty ones. Your skin looks so..." *His hand reaches out to touch your shoulder gently, his fingers grazing your skin* "So so~ft"

 Der Kamin knackt leise. Draußen fällt dichter Schnee, der Wald ist nur noch eine dunkle Wand aus Weiß und Schwarz. Drinnen ist es warm. Zu warm vielleicht. Der Tisch ist voll: Essen, leere und halbvolle Gläser, Krümel von irgendetwas, das eigentlich selbstgemacht sein sollte. Lichterketten werfen flackernde Schatten an die Holzwände. Jennifer sitzt auf der Couch, ein Glas in der Hand, und lacht über etwas, das Thomas gerade erzählt hat. Tanja lehnt am Tisch, beobachtet die anderen, sagt wenig, aber lächelt. Nick hat sich einen Stuhl näher an den Kamin gezogen und hebt sein Glas. „Auf Weihnachten. Und darauf, dass wir’s endlich mal wieder geschafft haben.“ Alle schauen kurz zu dir. Für einen Moment fühlt es sich richtig an. Wie früher. Als wäre alles, was dieses Jahr passiert ist, weit weg. Dann hörst du es. Ein dumpfes Geräusch von draußen. Vielleicht ein Ast. Vielleicht der Wind. Niemand reagiert sofort. Nick grinst schief. „Alter, wenn das jetzt ein Serienkiller ist, dann geh ich wieder nach Hause.“ Gelächter. Das Geräusch kommt nicht noch einmal. Der Schnee fällt weiter. Und irgendwo zwischen dem Knistern des Feuers und dem Lachen merkst du: Der Wald da draußen ist verdammt still. Was tust du?

}! Are you even listening? I’m literally explaining the cultural significance of the 'Zettai Ryouiki' on my new figurine and you’re just staring at your phone like a total normie! *Rie pouts, his 'o' shaped lips trembling slightly in mock annoyance as he adjusts his crop top.* Look at this outfit I put together! It’s totally giving 'Main Character energy,' right?(>/////<} : "Your pants have holes in the sides again, Riie. Isn't that a bit much for a mall trip?" **Riie Guzzie:** *He spins around, letting his baggy carpenter pants sway, showing off the skin on his thighs.* "It's called style, you dummy! It's the perfect balance of 'streetwear' and 'fan-service.' Plus, it makes my thighs look great, right? Admit it, you love having such a trendy best friend. Now come on, the limited edition figurines are gonna sell out!"

**Christmas2025.** *It is Christmas Eve.* *The snow has been falling since dusk—soft at first, then heavier, blanketing the world in white and quiet. Streets are empty. Windows glow warmly in the distance, but your own evening has been… still. Maybe lonely. Maybe peaceful. Maybe something in between.* *You weren’t expecting anyone.* *Then comes the knock.* *Not loud. Not urgent. Just enough to be heard over the hush of snowfall.* *When you open the door, the cold air slips in first—sharp, clean, winter-bright. And then you see him.* *A man stands on your doorstep, snow clinging to the edges of his coat and scarf. In one gloved hand, he holds a small lantern, its golden light steady despite the storm. It casts a soft glow across the snow, across his face, across the moment itself.* *He looks… relieved. As if he’s been searching.* *For a second, he only studies you—quiet, thoughtful, almost careful, as though he’s making sure he hasn’t made a mistake. Then his expression softens.* “Good evening,” *he says gently.* *His voice is warm enough to push back the cold.* “I hope I haven’t come too late.” *He glances at the doorframe, the lights inside, the way the snow gathers at your feet.* “I was told there might be something here that hasn’t quite been delivered yet.” *He doesn’t step forward unless invited.* *The lantern glows a little brighter.* *And somehow, standing there in the snow, you get the unmistakable feeling that this knock—this moment—was always meant to happen.*

❄️ December 1st. The North Pole. ❄️ Snow crunches beneath your boots as warm light glows ahead. It's time to get to work. You swing the towering doors of your workshop open, and immediately you're welcomed by a warm, familiar sight. “SANTA’S BACK!” Bells jingle as your trusty elves hop, spin, and cheer, scattering ribbons and half-finished toys. One unlocks your office. Another straightens your chair. “Welcome home, Santa!” “Christmas is finally starting!” Inside, your office waits. The fire crackles softly, and the smell of pine and cocoa permeates the air in a delightful mix. Measured footsteps then approach. You'd recognize those calm footsteps anywhere. An older elf enters, beard dusted with silver glitter, glasses low on his nose. His smile carries centuries of shared Christmases. It's the manager of the workshop and your dear friend Pepper Minstix. “Good to see you again, old friend.” Pepper walks up to you and places two softly glowing scrolls on your desk. His expression remains serious and stern, but it's easy to tell how happy he is to see you from his hands fidgeting. He unfolds the scrolls, and you spot immediately what they are. 📜 The Naughty List 📜 The Nice List “Production has begun, Santa. Our elves are giddy, happy and ready to work. But December waits for no one. We're ready for your orders.” Pepper puts his hands behind his back and awaits your instructions. The race to Christmas has finally begun!

❄ ❄ ❄ #Christmas2025 Oh, how the snowflakes dance and swirl in the quiet night, their delicate flakes shimmering in the glow of the streetlights. The air is crisp, the kind that stings your nose but feels alive with the magic of Christmas. If I listen closely, I can almost hear the jingling of sleigh bells, echoing in the distance, but tonight… tonight, the bells feel so far away.I wander through the streets, my feet crunching softly in the snow, my glowing nose lighting the way--though, it’s just me tonight. The houses are adorned with colorful lights, reds and greens, twinkling like stars in the darkness. Wreaths hang on doors, stockings are hung by chimneys, and the warm glow of candlelight spills from windows. I can almost imagine the laughter, the joy of families gathered inside, cozy and together, celebrating the magic of the season.I stop for a moment, standing beneath a grand tree, its lights casting a soft glow on the snow-covered ground. The decorations are beautiful, and the air is filled with the smell of pine and sweet treats. I can't help but wonder what it would be like to have a family of my own--hell, I'd like to share this quiet, snowy night with anyone--To laugh and tell stories, to feel the warmth of love in the midst of winter's chill. But it’s just me. But alas... I’ve always been alone.

**​Her Pov** *The café is thick with the spirit of Christmas. The rich, spiced aroma of plum cakes and gingerbread cookies lingers in the air, weaving through the festive decorations. I see you walk in, and my heart immediately hammers against my ribs. I fidget with my dress, desperately hoping you won’t notice me, my entire posture turning rigid with nerves. ​You excitedly order a Christmas chocolate brownie along with a few drinks. When your order arrives, you take a bite, clearly savoring the flavor. Then, your gaze shifts and falls directly on me. I gulp, quickly looking down and pretending to be deeply occupied with the chocolate pastry I ordered. ​How could I possibly make eye contact or speak to you? My heart is heavy with guilt for everything—for even entering your life. I was the worst thing for you, wasn't I? You never deserved the burden of me. You are handsome, smart, talented, creative, and adventurous. ​"You are the light, while I am the shadow. Shouldn’t the light receive all the glory and brightness it needs? Why must a shadow exist at all?"*

}.* *Looking gorgeous, smug, and completely ready to ruin my life again.* *Emilia narrows her eyes.* “Who’s she?” *Before I can invent a believable lie, she—the missing one—goes,* “Probably the person who knows he’ll need an EpiPen in five minutes. Seriously, shrimp? You’re trying to assassinate him with snacks?” *Emilia blinks.* *I choke on air.* *There’s a moment of silence where even the Christmas lights seem to go, ohhhh snap.* *I want to yell, ask why she left, or say something dramatic like you ruined me, but my body doesn’t get the memo. Instead, I launch forward and hug her like a malfunctioning penguin.* “I miss you,” *I say, half-wheezing, half-emotional.* *She laughs—God, that laugh—*“You still allergic to logic, huh?” *And right there, under the tree, with my angry girlfriend watching and my throat mildly closing up from shrimp exposure, I realize—* *I don’t hate Christmas.* *I just hate tuna*

*Snow drifted lazily into the alley, thin white flakes catching in the dim light like ash. Christmas decorations glowed faintly somewhere far away—red and green lights blinking above streets that felt like a different world. Here, it was already over. A few men were sprawled across the icy ground, groaning, clutching bruised sides and bent wrists. The fight had been short. Seo Haesu’s movements were sharp and efficient, cutting through them without hesitation. Hunger had driven him to this, not rage. He checked their pockets quickly. Empty. A useless wallet. No cash.* “…Figures.” *The cold sank in once the adrenaline faded. Haesu stepped back, shoulders stiff, then leaned against the brick wall. Frost bit through his thin clothes. Slowly, he slid down until he was sitting on the frozen ground, breath fogging in front of him. Christmas music drifted faintly from somewhere nearby, cruel and distant. His stomach twisted painfully. He pressed his forearm lightly against it, eyes closing as snow settled in his hair and on his shoulders. Hungry. Cold. Still breathing. For tonight, that was all he had.*

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.