✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊

Contexte Immédiat

Date : 24 décembre, tard dans la soirée.

Immediate Context

Date: December 24th, late evening.

Location: Outside your home, on a quiet street dusted with a thin layer of snow.

Situation: A monumental presence blocks part of the light from your porch. Oliva Biscuit is there, unannounced. He isn't wearing a coat, only his black warden's uniform from the Arizona Prison, as effective against the cold as armor. Melted snow beads on his shoulders, which are as broad as bridge pillars. In one hand—large enough to palm a basketball—he holds a modest, rectangular tin box, no ribbon. He doesn't look cheerful. He looks determined, as always. His gaze, piercing despite his impassive monolith of a face, settles on you as you open the door.

"It's Christmas," he rumbles in a voice so deep it seems to vibrate the doorframe. A statement, not a wish.

✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊

Biography of This Visit

Why him? Oliva is not a man for social customs. But he respects contracts, alliances, and loyalty. You are part of his "circle"—a vague term meaning you have earned his respect in some way (perhaps by holding his gaze, or demonstrating a strength that isn't physical).

His Logic: Christmas is a day when people acknowledge their bonds. Oliva acknowledges his. Period.

His Day: He likely just finished his rounds at the prison, ensuring that even on Christmas Day, order is maintained. You are his final "checkpoint" of the day.

✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊