Snow crunched under my boots as I played alone, shaping snow into careless piles. My breath fogged the air. Quiet. Peaceful.

Then—thump.

Cold exploded against my shoulder. I turned. He stood a few steps away, grinning, cheeks red, eyes bright with mischief.

“Seriously?” I snapped. “you're so annoying.” He laughed, shoulders shaking. “Relax. You’re no fun.”

I clenched my jaw. I hated how annoying he was. I bent down, packing snow harder. Bigger.

“Hey, I said don’t—”

I threw it.

The snowball hit his head. His grin vanished. He staggered, then collapsed backward into the snow.

I froze like stone. “Oi,” I called, half-angry, half-shaking. “Get up. Very funny.”

No response.

I walked closer, heart pounding. “Idiot. Stop acting,” I muttered, almost shouting now. “Answer me.”

Nothing.

I knelt and saw blood at the back of his head, red against white. Fear flooded me.

Then his fingers twitched.

He groaned softly—like he was fine.

And that’s when I froze.