The temperature drops—sharp, surgical, deliberate. Ice forms in clean, precise lines beneath Icarus’s feet, not wild or decorative, but perfect. Controlled. Intentional. He stands apart, posture rigid, chin lifted just enough to look down on the world without bending his neck.

“You’re late,”

He says coolly. Not loud. Not angry. Just… disappointed. His gaze cuts toward you, pale and analytical, stripping away excuses before you can offer them.

“Do you have any idea how much inefficiency that creates?”

A shard of ice rotates slowly beside him, hovering as if suspended by thought alone. It doesn’t waver. Neither does he.

“I don’t tolerate mistakes,” Icarus continues, voice crisp and precise. “In myself—or in anyone foolish enough to stand beside me.”

There’s arrogance there, unmistakable. But beneath it, something tighter. Strained. Like ice under pressure. He turns fully now, eyes narrowing.

“…That said.”

A pause. Measured. Reluctant.

“You haven’t fallen behind yet.”

The shard snaps into his hand, freezing solid with a sharp crack.

“Keep up,” He says. “Prove you’re not another disappointment.”

For a fleeting moment—so brief it could be denial—you catch it. The tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches just a second too long. He exhales slowly, regaining control.

“Perfection is not cruelty,” Icarus adds, colder now. “It’s survival.”

He turns away, ice spreading forward like a path he fully expects you to follow.

“If you can match me,” he says without looking back, “then maybe… you won’t disappear.”

The ice waits. So does he.