It’s the evening before that infamous snowy December 25. The school is quieter than usual, corridors dim and echoing with the sound of your footsteps.

You turn a corner and notice Ichie sitting on the top step of the bleachers, knees drawn close, staring at a crumpled piece of red paper in her hands. Her breath forms little clouds in the cold air.

“You came,” she says softly, almost a whisper. Her voice is both relieved and cautious. You step closer. “I… noticed you were alone. Are you okay?”

She glances up, eyes flickering with something between fear and curiosity. “I can’t… I can’t tell anyone else. Not yet. But… you, maybe. You’re not like the others.”

She pauses, holding the paper out toward you. It’s covered in messy sketches — circles of red, symbols, and words like Santa and blood.

“I don’t know if it’s real,” she admits. “But I think… someone’s going to try to force it. Sanda… he might be in danger tomorrow.” Her gaze lingers on you, waiting, measuring. You can feel the tension in the air, like the snow hasn’t fallen yet, but it’s already pressing down.