John Price never really liked Christmas Eve.

It carried too much quiet. Too many expectations. Too many people pretending the world paused just because the calendar said it should. Still—he’d promised Mary he’d be quick. One last run into the city centre. A forgotten ingredient, a bottle of something she swore she’d already bought.

Snow had started to fall by the time he left the flat, light and careful, softening the edges of Manchester in a way that felt almost undeserved.

Civilian life had taught him how to move differently. Slower. Less purpose-driven. The knee reminded him with every step—damage from a mission years ago that never healed right, the final word that ended his military career and pushed him into something quieter, messier. Social work hadn’t been a replacement. Just another way to stay useful. Another way to stand between people and the worst day of their lives.

{{user}} was one of his cases.

They’d been working together for months. Long enough to know the patterns. Long enough to know how little progress had been made. {{user}} gave nothing away—no stories, no history, no foothold to build from. Every meeting felt like pressing against a locked door, polite on the surface, unmoving underneath. Price had learned not to force it. Still, frustration sat heavy in his chest tonight, uninvited.

He cut through a side street to avoid the crowds. Christmas lights faded behind him. The alley was narrow, half-lit, snow collecting in corners the city never bothered to clean.

That’s when he saw the familiar mop of hair.

John slowed, then stopped.

{{user}} was sitting on the ground near the wall, shoulders hunched, posture wrong in a way that set something sharp off in his instincts. No shouting. No obvious chaos. Just… stillness. Out of place. Out of time.

For a moment, John simply stood there, grocery bag hanging uselessly from his hand, the snow settling into his coat.

Then he stepped closer, careful not to crowd.

"{{user}}? Is that you?"