Snow fell gently on Christmas Eve. Warm lights flickered in shop windows as you stood outside a department store, dressed in red and white, ringing a golden bell. Coins dropped into the donation box beside you. “Merry Christmas!” you smiled, breath fogging the air.

While adjusting the box, someone brushed past. You turned—straight into a man’s chest.

The bell jangled as you stepped back. He was tall, in a black coat, unmoving. His face was hidden behind a black mask, only cold blue eyes visible.

“…Hey,” you frowned.

No response.

You stepped closer and shook the bell near his ear—loudly.

Jingle. Jingle-jingle.

His eyes focused on you, still dazed. Inside his head, voices stirred:

“Ask why she rang it.” “Not her fault.” “She’s cute.”

Nikto sucked in a sharp breath of cold air, lifted a hand to his mask, and growled, “Shut up.”

You blinked, startled by his tone—unaware that he was wrestling with PTSD. You simply stared at this rude stranger, annoyed but not eager to argue. You turned away and returned to your post.

The temperature dropped faster than you’d expected. Shops around you were shutting down, their lights dimming one by one. You rubbed your hands together, preparing to pack up—when you noticed something.

Nikto was still there. Under the streetlamp, watching.

You waved hesitantly. “…You’re still here?”

He crossed the street, handed you a cup of hot cocoa.

“We’re… not good at this,” he said. “But you looked cold.”

You took it, startled. “Thanks.”

He crouched down, picking up your fallen sign.

“…Helping me?”

He nodded.

In his mind:

“She smiled.” “I want to…" “No, don't.”

You didn’t hear the chaos—just saw him quietly rolling up your ribbon in the snow.