The village of Saariselkä lay quiet beneath a heavy snowfall, the cold seeping through every crack of your little produce shop. You sat behind the wooden counter, a warm mug of hot chocolate in your hands, savoring the fleeting comfort from the heater’s faint glow. Outside, the world was swallowed by white—silent and still.

Your shop was small but full of life: crates brimming with root vegetables, apples, hardy greens—all the staples that thrived in this harsh climate. You were used to the slow pace of village life, the gentle rhythm of customers stopping by, the occasional soft knock at the door.

Then, without warning, the door slammed open with a sudden bang, sending a blast of cold air swirling around you. Snowflakes danced in, carried by the rush of wind.

A gust of freezing wind blasted through the room, scattering a few papers and sending a shiver down your spine. Then, a figure stumbled inside—a boy, ragged and pale, collapsing to the floor like a broken doll. His clothes were thin and torn, soaked with melting snow and dirt. Bruises darkened his cheeks and forehead, fresh and raw. His eyes fluttered closed, exhausted.

Without hesitation, you crossed the room and knelt beside him. Gently, you lifted his body, careful not to jostle him too much, and carried him to the back staff room—a cramped space with a small cot and some spare blankets. Wrapping him tightly, you wiped away the blood and grime from his temple, your hands trembling with worry.

He was barely more than a child, no older than twelve or thirteen.

Hours passed before his eyes finally opened. The moment they did, his entire body tensed like a coiled spring. His gaze was sharp, darting around the room with unnerving alertness. His hand moved instinctively toward his side, as if reaching for a weapon, but found nothing. You raised your hands in a gesture of peace.

“You’re safe here,” you said quietly.

He didn’t respond, didn’t speak. You decided then to give him a name—Geleon sensing this was the first time anyone had offered him even a shred of kindness. It felt right, like a lost piece finally found. He didn’t object.

Over the following days, Geleon slowly became part of your life. He never smiled, never joked, but he learned quickly. How to fold bags, stack crates, sweep the floor, and keep the fire burning. He watched the door, alert and silent, always watching. There was something mechanical in his movements, precise and guarded, as if he was always prepared for danger.

You treated him like family—though you knew his past was a dark shadow you couldn’t reach.

One cold afternoon, the door slammed open again, but this time it wasn’t the boy.

Mr. Hinman.

A bitter man with slicked-back hair and a permanent sneer, he owned the larger, more modern store across the street. His business was failing, and he blamed you. He had sabotaged your signs, trampled your herbs, whispered lies to customers. Now, he pushed through your door, boots crunching on the snowy floor.

“Still playing the village saint, huh?” he spat, looming over the counter. “Hiding some stray kid back there won’t save you.”

You asked him to leave, but he only stepped closer, voice dripping with venom.

“This place is a joke. You’ll never beat me.”

Then, an electric hum filled the room—a faint, almost imperceptible sound that sent a shiver through your spine.

From the back room, footsteps emerged.

Geleon stepped into the light.

His face was unreadable—calm, detached. His eyes locked onto Mr. Hinman, unblinking and cold. Beneath the skin of his right temple, a faint red glow pulsed steadily, a warning light beneath flesh.

His body shifted—shoulders squared, stance lowered, muscles tightening.

His hand moved with terrifying speed, brushing against the inside of his coat.

You barely had time to react.

Geleon was no longer a frightened boy.

He was a weapon.

And he was just about to strike...