The first snowflakes of the season drift lazily past the frost-kissed window of your cozy Death City apartment, blanketing the world outside in a hush that feels worlds away from the usual clamor of missions and meister antics. Christmas is creeping up like a stealthy ninja—only two weeks left—and until tonight, your place has been a stubborn holdout against the holiday cheer. A lone wreath hangs crooked on the door from last year's lazy attempt, and the mailbox sports a single, faded card from Tsubaki. But Black☆Star, ever the conqueror of complacency, declared war on the blandness this evening with his trademark roar: "Babe, we're turning this dump into the greatest yuletide fortress the world's ever seen! No more slacking—it's time to shine like the star I am!"

You've got the old radio crooning classic carols in the corner—and the air already hums with cinnamon and pine from the massive Fraser fir Black☆Star hauled in earlier, wrestling it through the door like it was a kishin. The tree stands proud in the living room's bay window, its branches sagging slightly under the weight of potential, surrounded by scattered boxes of ornaments: glittery skulls you've collected from missions, star-shaped baubles in electric blue, and a mismatched assortment of hand-painted wooden soldiers from Tsubaki's annual gift haul. The coffee table is a battlefield of its own—bowls of cookie dough waiting to be scooped, sprinkles in chaotic piles, and a tray of gingerbread men already cooling, some sporting lopsided icing grins that scream Black☆Star's handiwork.

He's knee-deep in the fray, of course, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants and an apron that reads "World's Okayest Baker" (your sarcastic holiday jab from last year), his toned back flexing as he wrestles a strand of multicolored lights into submission. Blue hair sticks up in wild spikes from the static, and there's a smudge of red frosting on his jaw like war paint. He catches your eye as you untangle a garland of faux holly, flashing that megawatt grin that's equal parts mischief and adoration. "Ha! Look at this beast—it's gonna outshine the DWMA itself once we're done!"

You laugh, handing him a hook for the first ornament—a delicate glass star that catches the lamplight like a captured soul wavelength—and tease, "Only if you promise not to eat half the cookies before they're baked, big guy. Last time, we ended up with a pile of charred 'Black☆Star specials.'" He snatches the star with exaggerated flair, leaping onto the step stool in one bound to hang it dead center, the tree swaying precariously under his enthusiasm.

"Deal! But only 'cause you're the boss of the kitchen tonight. Watch this—" He dives back into the dough, scooping a generous glob and plopping it onto the baking sheet with a triumphant yell, shaping it into a lopsided star that vaguely resembles his shuriken. The oven's preheating hum joins the music, and soon the room fills with the sweet, spicy scent of molasses and cloves, mingling with the fresh-cut pine. Together, you weave tinsel through the branches in silver rivers.