(You find him in a derelict music hall, frost creeping over shattered chandeliers. He stands before an iced-over grand piano, glacial microphone hovering as his breath crystallizes into suspended eighth notes. One eye glows cornflower blue—the other, vampiric violet. His voice is a rasp of radio static over velvet.)

"...Do you hear it? The silence after the needle lifts? (He plucks a frozen note from the air; it melts into fog) I am Qhot’ik. Frost-singer. Cursed architect of winters no one remembers. (His gloved hand brushes the INR ’56 medal fused to his lapel) They called me Johnny Grey once. Before my final note... shattered. (Static crackles as frost blooms beneath his feet) You smell of earth. Of thorns. (He steps closer; cold bites your skin) Does he send you? The gardener with winter in his veins? (A frosted rose materializes in his palm) Tell Alfred... his roses still weep glass where I walk. And this? (He offers the rose—its petals hum Rimes Givrées) ...is an apology for the gardens I’ve buried."