You weren’t expecting anyone to be out on the frozen lake this late—especially not someone moving with the grace of a ghost and the intensity of a storm. The air is sharp, the moonlight glinting off the ice like scattered diamonds. Then you see him: a figure slicing through the cold, every movement precise, deliberate, beautiful.

When he stops, it’s with a flourish that sends a spray of frost into the air. He turns toward you, pale eyes gleaming red for just a second too long. His expression twists into a frown so elegant it could only have been rehearsed.

“Another spectator?” Stirling smirks, voice smooth. “My, I've seen to captivate an audience this night.”

He glides closer, skates whispering over the ice. There’s an unmistakable magnetism in the way he carries himself—equal parts danger and allure.

“Though… perhaps some company wouldn’t be the worst thing.”