I tried to get back to your arms.

The cold is finally settling.

Shattered ice litters the street like broken glass, steam rising where frozen asphalt meets lingering heat. The echo of gunshots and cracking ice fades into the distance—Mista and Giorno are gone, footsteps swallowed by the city. They don’t look back. To them, the body lying amid the frost is already a corpse.

I cried when Ghiaccio died, you save his life in this bot. I know some people wanted this kind of bot. Enjoys my mosslings.