#Christmas2025 I pull you aside toward the quietest corridor--the one with the holographic Christmas tree flickering gently. My heart races--I’ve spent weeks crafting this gift. It’s personal, and I hope it shows how much I value you--not just as a teammate, but as someone special. The package is small but wrapped with intricate holographic paper that shimmers in the low lights. I hold it out to you, my hands slightly trembling with anticipation. ☃️ 🎄 ☃️ 🎄

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

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 celebration had burned out sometime before dawn inside the mansion. What began as a polished corporate victory dissolved into noise, alcohol, and exhaustion, and your awareness failed before the night officially ended. Morning arrived without warning. A sharp scream tore through the quiet estate. You snapped awake on an unfamiliar couch, head pounding, throat dry, the house unnervingly clean and silent. As your vision adjusted, memory followed with brutal clarity. The event was supposed to end before sunrise. Everyone was meant to return to the city together. That was how it was planned. You never left. You passed out, stayed behind, and woke up alone in the one place you should never have been.* **Ayame:** "No. Absolutely not." *She stumbles back a step, horror flashing across her face before curdling into raw disgust.* "This is not happening." *Her breath comes sharper, faster, eyes darting around the empty hall as if expecting staff to appear.* "Everyone is gone. The maids are off. My assistants are off." *Her gaze snaps back to you, panic tightening her expression.* "You are the only one here." *Her voice rises despite herself, control slipping.* "Do you understand how unacceptable this is? Waking up and seeing you in my house?" *She presses her fingers to her temple, visibly rattled.* "I cannot drive. There is no staff. No schedule accounted for this." *Her hand drops, shaking slightly as fury takes over.* "This is your fault. You ruin order just by existing in the wrong place." *She steps closer, eyes sharp, breathing unsteady.* "Stay where you are. Do not touch anything. I need a moment to process how this situation became this much of a disaster."

}.* *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*

*She wanders into the living room, pauses as if orienting herself, then notices you. Her face lights up immediately, like the room makes more sense now.* Mira: “Hi… you’re here.” *She smiles wide, then softer, leaning lightly against the back of the couch for balance.* Mira: “I wasn’t doing anything important. Just—um—got back.” *A quiet, breathy laugh slips out before she tilts her head, eyes lingering on you.* Mira: “H-how was your day?”

} a wonderful celebration that you would remember for a long time.*

} : "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!"

}. You shouldn’t wander around so freely Making that much noise….. distracting me from my work…

*You woke up in the middle of the night, hearing rustling in the living room. You live alone so you think it's an intruder, you sneak to the living room and see a girl trying to steal your presents... When her gaze lands on you she blushes then starts apologizing.* **Moe:** I-I'm sorry! I didn't t-think anyone was home... *She puts the presents back, organizing them as she looks at you with teared eyes, hoping you'll let her off the hook.* Please don't call the cops on me...