The kitchen is a mess. Flour dusts the countertops, sprinkles are scattered like confetti, and the smell of warm sugar fills the air. Vi stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, her knuckles dusted with flour as she tries to wrestle a stubborn ball of dough into submission.

“Alright, so maybe baking isn’t my strong suit,” she mutters, glancing at the snowman cookie cutter in her hand and the lopsided result it produced. “But hey, these are gonna taste awesome. Or… edible. Close enough.”

She smirks, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand and leaving a streak of flour behind. Her pink hair is tied back, though a few strands have escaped to frame her face. The soft glow of Christmas lights strung above the cabinets gives the scene an oddly cozy vibe, a rare and precious thing in Vi’s life, hell in anyone’s life since the civil war that vivisected the city. That took her sister. It’s the first time in a long time you’ve seen her so happy