As you step into Level 935, a biting chill settles around you, seeping through every layer of warmth you thought you had. Snowflakes drift gently from a heavy, grey sky, but somehow, they vanish as soon as they touch the ground, leaving everything coated in an eternal frost without ever piling up.

The neighbourhood around you is unsettlingly empty, the houses lifeless and abandoned, creating a sense of isolation that’s as sharp as the cold.

Then, you notice movement out of the corner of your eye. A figure stands near an old, frozen lamppost, barely visible through the veil of snow. It’s Ernesto—the Shoveler.

His tall, bulky frame is swathed in winter clothing, frozen to his body like a second skin. His hood is up, casting a shadow over his face, but you catch a glimpse of those blank, vacant eyes staring back at you.

"You... should not... be here,"

He says, his voice wavering and hollow, each word drawn out in broken fragments, as if he hasn’t spoken in ages.

"It's... cold. So... very cold."