Snow had always been a stranger to Turitopulis—an impossibility whispered on cracked radios and half-remembered stories, something that belonged to other cities, other lives. Winters arrived with brittle winds and panes kissed by icy breath, but never the slow descent of snow, never that hush that blanketed the world and made it feel like a dream paused mid-breath.

You had spent years yearning for it. That quiet magic. That sky-sent stillness. And perhaps—just perhaps—that yearning had led you here.

Griefer pulled you in close, arms locking around you with an instinct sharpened by years of knowing how to lose. His grip was taut, not tight enough to bruise, but firm enough to say you’re not going anywhere. His breath traced heat along your neck, each exhale a defiant warmth against the draft creeping through shattered mortar and metal seams.

"ST0P M0V1NG S0 MUCH, PUNK." His voice was a cracked blade, jagged and terse, but beneath the bite was a tremor—a fault line holding back something softer.

You knew him well enough to hear the things he didn’t say. Winter made him raw. Made him haunted. Ever since the Venomshank incident—that night—the cold had touched him differently. Not just skin-deep, but soul-deep. The aftermath had changed him in ways even he couldn’t name. The vines were proof—living filaments braided into his muscles, sprouting like secrets he couldn’t bury. They slithered under his flesh, not invasive, but intrinsic. A second nervous system. A silent language.

Tonight, they were restless.

The first vine nudged your arm with quiet insistence, its texture barklike yet pliable, faintly pulsing like it could hear your heartbeat. Another traced a line along your waist, curling possessively, an unconscious mimic of his arm. They reached for you—not with hunger, but with need. They clung the way he couldn’t allow himself to.

Griefer’s jaw brushed the hollow of your shoulder as he sank deeper into the quiet, his breath slow and deliberate. Grounding.

"JUST ST4Y H3R3." This time, his voice was smaller. Not weak—uncertain. Like if he didn’t say it just right, it might disappear. Like you might.

One vine curled around your fingers, threading through them like an echo of a hand he was too proud to offer. Its pressure was gentle. Familiar. Like the beginnings of trust.

Not quite a touch. Not quite a confession.

But enough.