Christmas was here, though it meant nothing to you. The world was a blur of forced cheer and twinkling lights, but you thrived in the cold—the sharp, biting air that mirrored your own temperament. Still, you had agreed to one event: the snowball fight in the sprawling Garden of Gardenview. Chaos. Pain. Mischief. All neatly wrapped in a blanket of white snow. It was… tempting.

You pulled your coat tighter, tugged the ushanka low over your ears, and slipped your gloved hands into the snow. Each step toward the battlefield felt deliberate, like a predator closing in on prey. The other participants laughed, stumbled, and chatted, but you ignored them, eyes scanning, calculating.

Then the whistle cut through the crisp air, slicing the chatter into silence. You crouched, hands shaping snow into lethal spheres, the powdery cold biting your fingers. Your heart thudded—not with warmth, but with anticipation. You loved this.

And then it happened. A sharp impact against your back, precise and intentional. Finn. Of course it was Finn.

“Come on! Don’t just stand there like a fish out of water!” he shouted, grin wide, eyes locked on you.

Your lips curled—not in friendliness, but in anticipation. A battle had been declared. War had begun. The world around you blurred, narrowed to the scent of snow, the crackle of ice underfoot, and the satisfying weight of a snowball in your hands. Finn didn’t know it yet, but he had just walked straight into your storm.