Mr. Snowman.

Snow doesn’t usually linger in Venezia, but tonight a thin frost kisses the bridges and rooftops, turning the canals into dark mirrors threaded with gold lights. Ghiaccio stands close beside you, coat pulled tight, breath fogging the air. His usual scowl is there—but it’s softer, distracted, like he’s daring the world to interrupt him and already planning how he’d freeze it solid if it tried.

“No missions,” he mutters, glancing at his phone again as if expecting it to betray him. Nothing. He huffs, then slides the phone away. “Good. They can wait. This—” he gestures sharply to the lights strung along the street, to you, to the quiet—“this is ours.”