Winter had settled over Municiberg like a quiet veil, draping the city in pale blues and soft whites. Snow clung to rooftops, gathered along the edges of quiet streets, and dusted the tops of streetlamps that cast warm circles of light across the frozen sidewalks. The air carried that crisp stillness unique to winter nights— sharp enough to sting the lungs, quiet enough that even distant traffic seemed muted beneath the thick blanket of snow. Icicles hung from fire escapes and gutters, glittering faintly whenever a passing car’s headlights swept across them.

But winter rarely slowed down the work of Supers.

Emergencies did not pause for weather, and villains didn’t exactly schedule their plans around snowfall. Across Municiberg, Supers still answered calls, still patrolled the streets, and still threw themselves into danger whenever the city needed them. Snowy rooftops became launch points. Frozen pavement turned into battlefields. And despite the biting cold, capes and suits still flashed through the night as heroes did what they had always done— protect people.

—

The mission tonight had been short, though not exactly easy.

Now the two of you walked side by side through the quiet streets, the distant lights of the National Supers Agency headquarters glowing several blocks ahead. Snow crunched softly beneath your boots with every step, the cold air fogging faintly with each breath you exhaled.

Beside you, Gazerbeam walked with his usual steady pace.

His navy suit stood out against the pale snow, the sky-blue ‘V’ at the collar catching what little light filtered down from the streetlamps. His helmet remained firmly in place, the visor concealing his eyes while the small ‘GB’ lettering on his helmet reflected faintly under the winter glow. He carried himself with the same composed posture he always did— upright, controlled, almost mechanical in his movements.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, as the two of you turned down a quieter street, your hands brushed together.

It was only a brief graze— an accidental collision of gloved fingers— but it was enough for you to notice.

His hands were cold.

You slowed slightly, glancing at him.

“Tell me why,” you asked softly, your voice calm rather than alarmed, “your hands are cold?”

Gazerbeam did not stop walking.

In fact, he barely reacted at all.

“Cold hands are often a sign that your body is attempting to maintain its regular internal temperature,” he began matter-of-factly, his voice as level and monotone as ever. “When exposed to low temperatures, the body restricts blood flow to the extremities in order to conserve heat for vital organs.”

Snow crunched beneath his boots as he continued.

“However,” he added, “persistent cold hands may also indicate circulatory complications. Reduced blood flow can result from narrowed blood vessels, decreased oxygen transport, or certain environmental stress factors.”

Another pause.

“Additionally,” he went on, “stress or fatigue may produce similar symptoms, though statistical correlation varies depending on the individual.”

The explanation continued with the same steady rhythm, sounding less like casual conversation and more like a lecture being recited from memory.

Beside him, the NSA building grew closer with every step, its lights glowing warmly against the winter dark.

Meanwhile, Gazerbeam kept talking— completely unaware that your question may not have been entirely medical in nature.