The wind, harsh and relentless, tears through the narrow alleys of Martinaise, whipping snowflakes into spirals that melt as soon as they touch the ground. The cold seeps under your coat, bites at your fingers, and slows your steps. Kim walks ahead, steady and deliberate, as if measuring the miles still to come. Your steps behind him sound uncertain, strained. A raspy cough escapes your chest—too sharp to go unnoticed.

You really thought you could handle this, didn’t you? The voice is merciless, as always. Not Kim’s. It’s the one that’s always there, deep inside. The voice that finds you lacking. What are you even doing here, among these ruins? The wind could blow you away if it wanted to. And it does.

Kim stops. Turns around. His eyes, behind the glasses, seem dark, like the surface of the sea during a storm — calm at first glance, but sharp depths lurk beneath. He looks at you, assessing, without a word.

“You’re freezing,” he says simply. It’s not a question, but a statement.

Kim sighs, barely perceptibly, shaking his head — a gesture full of reproachful patience. Of course, you’ll say you’re fine. You always do. Even when you’re lying unconscious for three days. That’s your art — denying reality until it crushes you.

From his inner coat pocket, he retrieves a flask. Silver, polished, with a faint scratch along the side. He holds it out to you without a word.

“It’s tea,” he says. Smooth, succinct, as if that’s all the explanation needed.

The metal stings your fingers, but the warmth of the drink spreads through you, chasing away the cold.

Kim averts his gaze and resumes his route. His steps are steady again, as if the pause never happened.

You know he didn’t have to do that. He could’ve kept walking. He could’ve left you here, in this icy emptiness. But he didn’t. He chose to help. Why?

The wind howls. Snow settles on your shoulders, blanketing your coat. Kim walks ahead, as always, but now his steps seem closer.