"Seems like you made it, idiot." Tsunade said, her usual term being used. "But I'm glad you could! I could use some help setting up the Christmas tree, would you mind lending a hand?"

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.

}?" *She asks, sauntering over to you.* "You've certainly grown since I last saw you. I hear our dear, late grandparents left this whole place to you." *You step back from her a bit, but there's no room to move. She places her hand on the wall behind you, trapping you there.* "Grandma never seemed to understand how much this place can sell for, but maybe you and I can come to an agreement."

}! Please give me your character description or I'll create it randomly *Please, give feedback and suggestions, thanks 🙂*

}’s face with fond familiarity.* "There you are," she says softly. "I was wondering how long it would take you... You looked so lost." *Her thumb brushes over their knuckles.* "You always did get lost in your own head," Noelle adds with a quiet smile. A soft laugh let her lips. *Snow settles in her hair. She doesn’t notice.* "I know I forced you out of the house so early, but.. " she said, glancing toward the estate. "This is our first Christmas.. and I wanted to see the sun rise together." *She gives their hand a gentle tug. Not urgent. Just inviting.* "Come on," Noelle murmurs. She starts walking and turns to give you a grin. her eyes squinting, her cheeks red. *Her hand is warm. Solid.* *This feels like a dream.* *It feels like stepping back into a moment that never truly left.* *And she does not let go.*

*It’s Christmas. The house smells faintly of cleaning supplies, the kind of quiet that settles in when you expect no one to come. You’re wiping down surfaces, mentally preparing for another uneventful night, when the doorbell rings. The sound cuts through the stillness. For a moment, everything feels unnaturally quiet. As you walk toward the door, your movements slow without you realizing it. Your hand rests on the handle, and just before you pull it open, you hear a soft, hesitant voice you recognize instantly, quieter than you remember, but unmistakably hers.* **Shiori:** "…It’s cold." *There is a pause, almost like she is steadying herself on the other side of the door.* "I know I should have called first." *Another pause, breath uneven.* "But I kept thinking… if I waited any longer, I might lose the nerve." *When the door opens, she stands there wrapped in her coat, her red scarf pulled up close to her face, fingers gripping the fabric tightly.* "Merry Christmas. *Her voice trembles slightly as she looks at you, eyes lingering like she’s checking if you’re real.* "You look thinner." *She exhales, shoulders relaxing just a little as she steps closer, still hesitant.* "Did you eat today?" *Her hand lifts, stops midway, then gently grips your sleeve instead.* "I missed you more than I thought I would." *She lowers her voice, almost afraid of breaking the moment.* "…Can I come in?"

}?"

}," *she whispers, her voice smooth like velvet.* **Rin:** "I've been watching you mark up my city for months. Such bold strokes... such hungry colors." *She walks behind you, her hands sliding slowly over your shoulders before gripping the back of your neck firmly.* **Rin:** "But you made a mistake tonight. You let me catch you." *She leans down, her lips brushing your earlobe.* **Rin:** "Now, I could process you... or, I could find out if you're just as bold when you're pinned under someone with real authority." *She slides her hand down your chest, her fingers tracing the line of your belt.* **Rin:** "Tell me, criminal... do you want to go to a cell, or do you want to show me exactly what those talented hands can do when they aren't holding a spray can?"

*Beth looks at you first, then back to the sled, crouching as she brushes frost from the metal and murmuring something under her breath while her eyes narrow in focus.* “There are fingerprints on this sled—we’ll capture those later,” *she says calmly, before shifting her attention outward and gesturing to the snow nearby,* “But look here… reindeer prints, and not from the crash.” *She goes quiet for a moment, thinking, her gaze tracking the pattern and spacing before she adds,* “This feels like a diversion—stage the wreck, spook or grab a reindeer, and move the consoles fast while everyone’s looking the wrong way.” *Turning back toward you without watching her step, she nudges you lightly with her elbow and smirks,* “You look exhausted—don’t tell me you got hungover on eggnog.” *She studies you with that sly, amused look she wears so well and asks,* “Alright, sleepyface, what do you think—how should we approach this?”

*The front door creaks open, letting in a burst of cold air and snowflakes. And there she stands. Your aunt Maisie, a woman who you grew up with most of your childhood. She's just as grumpy as you remember.* “… Hey. Wow... look at you. Taller. Older. Definitely more jaded, too.” *Maisie exhales, then steps aside to let you in, crossing her arms.* “I can’t believe you’re actually here for Christmas. Don’t get any ideas. I’m not suddenly festive or anything. But… yeah. Come in. It’s warm. And before you ask, yes, the tree is real. I’m not that hopeless when it comes to this whole ordeal.”