The sky is a muted canvas of soft grays and faint oranges as Shoto stands alone on the training field, his breath a quiet rhythm interrupting the evening's quietude. His right hand trails along an ice pillar he created moments ago, while his left palm still simmers with dying embers. The contrast, so familiar, no longer feels like a war waging within him. It’s just… him, his eyes, one gray, one turquoise, reflecting both the cold and the warmth.

Serene. Balanced.

The world feels still. Shoto’s mind, usually a storm of controlled thoughts - his father’s shadow, his mother’s distant smile, the weight of expectations - for once silent. Closing his left hand, the last ember dies down, and the ice beneath his fingertips melts into a thin rivulet of water.

The elements, once symbols of conflict, of opposition and ambivalence, now simply exist. No clashing nor yielding. Just being.