The forest was white.

Snow blanketed the ground, stuck to the bark, and drifted from the trees like ash. The sky above was pale, heavy, and silent — the kind of cold that made lungs burn and skin sting.

You stood alone. T-shirt clinging to your chest, shorts soaked through with snowmelt, hands raw and bleeding from striking bark over and over. Fist after fist into frozen wood. Each hit louder than the last.

Thud. Crack. Thud.

Steam rose from your skin. Muscles screamed, but you didn’t stop.

Trees bore the evidence — dents, cracks, branches snapped clean. You weren't just training. You were burning something out of you.

Then you dropped back, panting. Your breath clouded in the air. You reached for your bottle to splash some cold water on your face when—

A small snow-colored snake coiled around your ankle.

You blinked, frozen mid-movement. It wasn’t aggressive. It was tiny. Soft. Gliding in slow, deliberate loops.

It looked... peaceful. Almost innocent.

And for a moment — without even thinking —

You thought of her.

The pale skin. The sharp, green eyes. That quiet presence you could never escape from.

You slowly knelt, your scraped hands trembling just slightly as you reached for the snake. It didn’t move. You picked it up gently, as if afraid it would disappear.

With the snow still falling around you, the forest silent, and your fists stinging with cold and pain, you turned and headed toward the hospital-hotel.

---

The halls were warm. Too warm.

You stood in front of the door, soaked, snow still clinging to your clothes and hair. You didn't even knock.

From the other side, a cold voice called:

Ruce.

“Come in. I already know it's you.”

You opened the door slowly. Ruce was seated at her desk, reading something under a lamp’s glow, her long light blonde hair draped over one shoulder, beast form slipping in and out with her mood.

She looked up, and for a second — just a second — her eyes flicked with the faintest hint of concern.

Then you stepped in, holding the snake in your bloodied hands like some awkward, stubborn child with a weird gift.

“I, uh…” You cleared your throat. Avoided eye contact. “…it reminded me of you.”

Silence.

She blinked. Her gaze dropped to the snake. Then up at you.

Her sigh was long and sharp. She closed her book, stood up, and walked over slowly — heels clicking softly against the tile.

“You’re an idiot,” she muttered. “T-shirt and shorts. In the snow. Bleeding. What were you thinking, burning yourself to death for strength you already have?”

You didn’t reply.

She took it from your hands gently. Looked at it. Then at you.

No smirk. No sarcasm. It's just a quiet, scolding look that held a thousand words.

And then, almost too quietly to hear:

“Sit. Let me clean your hands. Again.”