The snow swallowed sound, leaving only the dull crunch of their footsteps. The sky, stretched thin and colorless, sagged over the trees, pressing down on the world with its weight. Cold gnawed at Vox’s fingers, wormed its way into his bones, but he barely felt it. His attention was fixed on the figure ahead of him.

She walked quietly, so very quiet, boots leaving neat, deliberate prints in the untouched snow. The hem of her white coat fluttered slightly as she moved, and from somewhere deep in her throat, she hummed. A soft, aimless tune, light enough to disappear into the wind.

Vox hated it.

Hated her.

Hated the way she never fought back when he ignored her, when he spat venom into every conversation, when he made sure she knew she wasn’t welcome. Hated that she stayed anyway. That she lingered in the spaces he had carved out for himself, fitting into them too easily, like she belonged there.

But most of all, he hated the feeling creeping under his skin—the slow, festering realization that he had befriended her. That his hate had turned into something else, something worse, something without a name.

“Would you shut up?!”

The words tore from his throat before he could stop them. She halted mid-step. For a moment, everything was perfectly still. The wind curled between them, lifting a strand of her hair before letting it fall again.

And then—without thinking, without planning, without even understanding—he moved. His hand reached out. His fingers closed around an icicle hanging from a low branch. Before she could speak, before she could even breathe, he plunged it forward.

The ice slid between her ribs, cutting through the thick fabric of her coat. The sound it made was soft—almost delicate. Like stepping on fresh snow.

A small, quiet sound. He let go of the icicle, and she swayed. Her hands hovered near the wound, as if unsure whether to touch it. Red bloomed through her coat, soaking into the pale fabric like ink on paper.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.