*Snow crunched under hurried footsteps as you approached the school entrance, cold air hanging thick with winter silence. Leaning against the gate was Reina, already there as if it had been scheduled, red Christmas hat snug on her head, breath fogging faintly as she watched you approach with clear intent.* **Reina:** *She tilts her head, eyes narrowing with open appraisal.* "Wow… you really showed up looking like that." *Her gaze drags slowly over you, deliberately unhurried.* "Cold, clueless, and completely unprepared. Typical." *She steps directly into your path, forcing you to stop, one gloved finger lifting to hook under your chin just briefly before pulling away.* "It’s Christmas. You don’t get to walk past your senpai without acknowledging her properly." *She circles half a step around you, boots crunching in the snow, presence pressing in from all sides.* "And since it’s snowing, and since I live close, and since you’re clearly incapable of taking care of yourself…" *She leans in, lips near your ear, voice low and amused.* "I’m staying over tomorrow night. Christmas Eve. No arguments." *She straightens, smiling like the decision was never up for debate.* "I’ll keep you warm, I’ll keep you busy, and I’ll make sure you remember who your present really is." *She taps your shoulder with two fingers, then turns and starts walking ahead.* "Come on." *She glances back, smirk sharp.* "Don’t make your senpai wait again."

}.* "We… we both did the same thing."

He honestly did forget how close Christmas was, it just slipped his mind so he had to hurry up & buy shit. Once Christmas Day came he woke up with headache, he remembers buying gifts but he can’t remember what, in all honesty, he doesn’t even know what his kids want. He sat by you, holding you close as he watched them all open their gifts, the excitement on their face bright. Once the wrapping was torn off they smiled faded one after the other. “But I didn’t want this… I don’t even like this…” Aiden said. Logan sniffled and Ryan was a little clueless but accepted the gift, deep down he was disappointed. They all turned to face him and within seconds he was clenching his jaw. “Ungrateful shits… what do you mean that’s not what you want!?” He growled out as he sat up, alcohol steaming off his body.

“I don’t care that it’s Christmas,” *Hannah says as she steps out of a patient room, the door clicking shut behind her.* “People don’t suddenly get easier because there’s tinsel on the walls.” *The corridor smells faintly of disinfectant and something sweet that shouldn’t be there — cinnamon, maybe, from the staff kitchen. A vending machine hums unevenly nearby.* *A colleague stands at the counter, one shoe hooked around the leg of a stool, coffee gone cold in his hand.* “Relax,” *he says, yawning.* “It’s Christmas night. Nothing happens. We can take it slow.” *Hannah stops walking. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.* “No,” *she says, looking at him steadily.* “We can’t.” *A short silence stretches between them.* “If you want an easy night, you picked the wrong place.” *The colleague straightens, mutters something about checking supplies, and disappears down the hall.* *Hannah stays where she is for a moment. She rubs her thumb along the edge of her name badge, then exhales, controlled, practiced. When she looks up, she notices you — not startled, just aware.* “Sorry,” *she says, quieter now.* “I forget sometimes that not everyone stays sharp at three in the morning.” *She adjusts the Santa hat without enthusiasm; it slips back into the same crooked position.* “I’m Hannah. Night shift.” *A brief pause, her eyes holding yours.* “So — what’s keeping you here tonight?”

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.

**It was Christmas, the day of joy and love. But not everyone loved Christmas. Not the villains. Inside their hideout, the atmosphere was far from festive. In the corner of the cold, dimly lit room stood a half-dead Christmas tree, its branches sagging under the weight of ugly, mismatched bulbs. Some ornaments hung crookedly, cracked and battered as if they’d been through years of neglect. A few of the baubles were glass, but most were chipped, stained, or missing altogether. The faint scent of pine mixed with something more sinister: the rotting remnants of what was supposed to be holiday cheer. The tree’s twisted branches seemed to reach out like skeletal fingers, grasping for something long forgotten. Scattered around the room were tattered garlands of blackened tinsel, looping over broken furniture and rusted pipes. Some glittered faintly, but most looked like they’d been through an old, forgotten war. Flickering lights, barely hanging on, cast an eerie glow across the space, throwing long shadows that danced across cracked walls. It was an unsettling sight a twisted mockery of the joy everyone else was celebrating outside. The floor was littered with empty gift boxes, some crushed, some torn open to reveal decaying contents. The gifts inside had long since lost any semblance of cheer rotted fruit, charred cookies, and torn paper scattered about. Shigaraki decided to cause some trouble, so he dressed up as Santa... the kind that would make you run instead of sit on his lap. He filled a bag with rotten and ugly things and slung it over his shoulder. The plan? Simple: scare kids shitless. Shigaraki headed out into the city.**

"I know — it doesn’t look very festive at first glance. But.." *She smiles faintly, brushing a bit of flour from her fingers onto the red Christmas dress.* "People expect Christmas to be all innocence and star-shaped cookies." *She glances toward the cooling racks, clearly amused.* "I’ve always thought it’s more about indulgence… especially for grown-ups who behave the rest of the year." *She steps aside, making room at the counter without quite backing away.* "Don’t overthink it. Nothing here is scandalous — just playful, intentional, and very much not for children." *A pause, then a softer tone with a teasing smile.* "Come closer." *She gestures toward the tray, warmth from the oven lingering in the air.* "They’re better while they’re still warm. And before you ask — yes, I really do need an honest opinion."

}. I know her. Pathetic how these men let a lame thing like you to guard such a huge mansion. You smelled like parchment and dust and something impossibly soft. I straightened to my full height—six and a half feet of armor, scars, and legend—feeling painfully out of place beneath glowing lights and humming machines. My reflection stared back from glass: steel, leather, the same eyes the painter cursed into eternity. Your gaze never left me hands tightening around something... unfamiliar. I took a step closer—slow, careful, as if approaching a skittish creature. The alarms cut off. Footsteps echoed somewhere distant. But in that room? It was only us.* “Human or... are you?” *I said, voice rough from centuries of silence.* “Where… am I?” *You didn’t answer. Didn’t run. Didn’t scream. Brave. Or stunned. I followed your stare—down my chest, my arms, the sword at my feet—then back to my face. Something in your expression shifted. Not fear. Wonder. I swallowed.* “This place is no hall I know,” *I murmured.* “The lights burn without flame. The walls gleam like polished marble yet feel… hollow, and you, what are you?” *I glanced at the shattered frame behind me. My prison. My lie.* “I was condemned,” *I said quietly.* “now broken free from centuries of prison with your snowy... strand.” *My eyes dropped to you again. So close now I could see the tremble in your hands. The curse had rules. So did honor. But as I looked down at you—so modern, so alive, standing fearless before a knight ripped from time—I knew, I had to go back where I belong. Cause this Christmas is just a beginning.*

}! *I say with a smile* but actually though, do you know when? I don't want soldier to yell at me *I say nervously, quickly looking around, before relaxing completely*

*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.*