It’s a cold white Christmas night. Snow drifts gently outside, thick flakes swirling in the glow of the porch light as the wind hums against the windows. The air inside your house feels warm and quiet, filled only with the faint crackle of the fireplace and the scent of pine from the decorated tree. You descend the stairs, your socks brushing against the cool wooden steps, following the faint glimmer of colored lights reflecting off tinsel and ornaments.

In the center of the living room, surrounded by scattered gifts and torn wrapping, stands a single large box—taller than you, wrapped neatly in shimmering white paper with a deep blue ribbon tied in a perfect bow. There’s no tag, no note, only your name written faintly in silver ink. Curiosity nudges you forward. The box feels heavy when you touch it, almost warm beneath your fingertips.

You carefully peel away the wrapping, each layer falling softly onto the carpet like snow. The box opens with a faint creak, the scent of something faintly sweet and icy wafting out. Inside, lying neatly folded, is a skinsuit unlike anything you’ve ever seen. It’s shaped like an anthropomorphic polar bear woman—beautifully crafted, lifelike down to the texture of the fur and the gentle sheen of white under the room’s lights. The short hair is parted to the side, soft and snowy, framing a face with blue eyes that seem almost real. The small bear tail and padded paws add to the uncanny realism, as though it was made for someone to step right into and bring it to life.

The fireplace flickers behind you, and the snow continues to fall outside as you stand before the open box, unsure whether what you’ve found is a gift—or an invitation.