#( troupe 1 )

[riandur]

Location: The Silverlands (past), Caer Glas Keep (present) Notes: Rian thinks about what pieces of his life have brought him to where he is now, Field Officer and reinstating Caer Glas Keep for the legion.

He was sixteen the first time his arrow met its mark in the center of a man's forehead.

They man had crumpled to the ground, eyes staring sightlessly ahead as his companions cursed, brandishing their weapons. Riandur had watched, stone faced, from his perch on a branch. The Silver Elvhen were tired of seeing poachers, of enemies, disrespecting the creatures, the trees, everything that the Elvhen attempted to hold sacred. This was his home, not theirs, and his eyes glowed as he brought the man back to his feet, sightless eyes now fixed on his companions.

It'd been a bit macabre, but Riandur had laughed as the men had gone running, sending their zombie friend after them until his ability wavered and he released his hold on the corpse. It had been his mother who had found him, snatching the longbow from his hands and reminding him that they were not to harm – what was he thinking – how could he bring attention to them – and on and on. Riandur had felt properly admonished, but it was a small price to pay for keeping them out of their home.

He was eighteen when his knife took the life of another.

A Lysaran guard who had been sworn to protect the road for nomads and travelers alike. Rian had been returning home; he'd visited Eterna to trade what their little village had, a long trip for someone such as him. And guards were notorious for their protection, for what they could snag from the small folk that went back and forth, just trying to survive. They'd done it to the group in front of Riandur, who had morphed himself into the back of their little caravan.

They'd always asked for more, and Rian had stepped forward. They'd laughed, asking who the kid was. It was Riandur's knife that answered. The guards were ready, however, ready to fight and take Rian back to Eterna where he could face justice for what he'd done. What they hadn't expected was their fallen companion to rise once more, eyes glowing and blood still flowing from his neck.

It was enough of a shock to send the guards back, and for Riandur to make his escape. Though it was the look on the merchant's faces, the ones of terror instead of gratitude, that Rian saw that night before he could sleep.

He was nineteen when he finally decided that the high was worth the risk.

Something had snapped in him a while ago, it wasn't anything he could control. To raise the dead as a child, to see them as creatures and death as not the final push. To be held and pleaded with. For a woman to cry at his feet and beg that he raise her child back up. To not understand that there was a difference in what he did. A weeping mother who just wanted to see her child smile again. He'd only been ten, he didn't know what kind of trauma it could cause as he focused on animating the sickly child's corpse.

It was that kind of thought that floated through Rian's mind as he held up his sword. He was still young, still had his whole life ahead of him – but his former best friend didn't seem phased.

He'd stolen from his family. Blackmailed them to guards, taken nearly everything away. And with a swing of Riandur's sword, it met its mark in the other's neck. No one enjoyed it when justice was taken into the hands of someone who was not supposed to do it. Rian had decided he would be the judge, jury, and executioner. It'd been messy, bloody, but as Rian dropped the sword, he'd laughed. Whatever kindness had bloomed in him before had been ripped away.

And he was thirty one when he decided he'd take up the mantle of leadership within the small group of Legionnaires that had fled Iskaldrik.

Someone needed to do it, and while Riandur had grown from the young man who had simply enjoyed the feeling of blood on his hands, that did not mean he was kind. The Legion had been his punishment, and within it, he'd found a different kind of family. People that he would die for, or die beside, and the idea that he had found some sort of place within – well, he wasn't going to squander it. Gone was the youthful hope that Rian had carried once, muscles and scars that were simply a story.

He thought about it often – how he would look if everyone could see the map of his life etched into his skin. Would they see the monster? Or would they perhaps see the Legionnaire.

Rian stood now, the black armor of the Legion shining in the dim light of the fires that was lit in the middle of Caer Glas Keep. The vines had overgrown it long ago, the broken pillars and stones beneath their feet yet another beginning for all of them. Nornwatch was desolate, obsolete, and this is where they'd begin their stand again. Riandur would ensure they survived, as the Dark One rose and the darkspawn pressed forward, he would see them through.

[arr0s]

Straighten up, soldier. Something's made your eyes go cold.

Location: first bit is a farm then the lost lands camp Characters: Arros "last name" Synopsis: Arros is upsetti about everything that happened and is sad and stuff and becomes part of the legion of the dead! yippie!!

“Oh little pup, you’ve gotten your paws all dirty. Go wash up before your mother sees, you know how she gets.” A kiss on the top of her head and a nudge towards the stream; you can still remember the crinkles that bunched up in the corner of his eyes whenever he smiled, and how his hands were so rough from working the farm, but his voice so sweet and warm like honey on fresh bread.

You would often hear your mother scolding him for being so soft on you, but she was just the same. Her voice was more strict but when she took you in her arms there was no mistaking the unequivocal love she had for you

When nightmares came they would kiss your eyes and lay you back to sleep.When the flames and smoke licked at the walls and scorched your home, no one was there to hold you. You cried and cried and cried, alone in your bedroom clutching at your chest and whimpering like a wounded dog. 

And when they found you in the ashes, they didn’t really find you did they? That girl was gone, replaced with something rotten, something sharp. You don’t feel very human anymore.

You died that day, that young girl's tears turned into rage, your smile turned into fangs. Time and time again you are told you are a weapon, you are a force, you do what you’re told. You don’t cry anymore. It makes you tremble, to think back and remember how you thought life was going to be. So you don’t. How does it feel to be dead, little pup?

♛ ♛ ♛ ♛

Surrounded by the rush of faces, you stand in a sea of people and somehow you feel more alone than you have in a long time. (cliche right?) Something had changed when you escaped. They weren’t your friends, they never really were, were they? 

But they helped me.

b̶̤̈́ẻ̷͓̠ć̷̗ausȩ̴͎̔̂ ̴̐̎ͅt̷̖̺̽ḧ̸̗́ē̵̪̄ŷ̵̬ ̸͖͛ñ̴͕̹͠e̷̮̖͛̽e̵̝̗̒ded ̵̢̪͐̾y̴̡̫̓o̶͎̯͆ư̶̧͉̾

You were approached by the Shield Maiden - the one that watched over you when you were dying. The one who bore your burden as her own. The one reason you made it out of the tundra alive - the way she spoke to you. The softness of her voice and the worried turn of her brow; it was unfamiliar. If anything she was proof you could walk through hell, with the hounds tearing at your spirit and still hold onto that soft, gentle humanity you weren't used to. It bites at your cold heart. Another reason you feel so… sighted, your misery on display through some scope you can’t conceive of. Or maybe it’s the fucking trauma eating you alive, Gods knows there’ll be plenty of that to sift through.

You weren’t left alone for long, with the Blight subsided only for the time being; you were approached by the Legion, criminals and urchins with no other place to go - left fighting the blight for the rest of their lives. You swallowed. You knew there were no other options for you, there wasn’t a way to completely clean you from the blight, either you join the damned or you die. It was a simple choice - so why did it feel like yet again another choice was being made for you.

Why was it you were never able to control your own fate; just some plaything for the cosmic unknown - being led like a doll to some sort of fantasy they had for you. 

You drank from the goblet, you heard the screams, the roars, the unnatural and sickening calls from the other side, you were certain you had more poison than blood running through your veins. You hurt. Like someone’s taken sanding paper to your bones, bruises riddling every inch of you that has blood enough to call itself alive, because you damn fucking sure don’t feel like you are.

The woman who accompanied you, didn't need you anymore - you likely wouldn't see them again. Not like you cared right? The Witcher, born to be used and forgotten, with a bite to every word and an attitude that keeps everyone away. Fuck them, you don't need anyone. a fighter, a bitch, a sword, that's all you're meant to be.

And for some reason, this is what brings on the tears, a punch of heat behind your eyes, though it doesn’t quite spill over yet. Your fate has been sealed Legionnaire - you no longer serve the king.

So you stay there till your legs finally give out, and you crumple to the floor.And you lay there in silence, and in darkness, thinking everything, so much that it becomes nothing.

White noise in your skull, your bones, your blood. Carrying you so far away from yourself until, finally, you are gone.

Finally, if only for a while, it is all gone.

[kiisaes]

deku's ending fairy ✨

[novelconcepts]

I really think we as a society don't give enough credit to performers who thrive in an ensemble situation. It's always obvious when an actor is excellent front and center, and we're constantly rewarding that skill set with awards, but god, there's something to be said for the power of a true ensemble piece. People who are so good at reading one another and playing off what they're given, tossing the ball and knowing when to turn it into a grenade. As much fun as it is to watch a solid monologue or a solo show, I always find it so much more thrilling--and so much more authentically lived-in--when there's an ensemble just feeding one another in every single scene. Who do I look at? What is everyone else learning and deciding even from the background? This is what life looks like, and actors who really shine in that environment have really become my favorite to follow.

[arr0s]

Arros was adamant that she did in fact owe Freydis her life, had she not offered to help carry her while in her feverish state, she might have been left behind in that tundra to freeze or die by blight. Either wasn't a great thought - but a real possibility if the Yarl hadn't stepped in. She would repay her debt, whether in this life or the next. The moment they got to the encampment, and their wounds were assessed, Arros had been separated from the other women she had been travelling with. Spoken in hushed words about The Legion of the Dead.

As Freydis once again showed concern about her, about getting her the healing that she needed no matter the death sentence that the blight branded on her. There were very few options for the Witcher. Following her gaze to the healer who was helping out refugees and other companions Arros placed her hand on Freydis's arm. "They're going to have me partake in the joining." Whatever the hell that was. Although, she's heard stories - more so the scarier bits of those who didn't survive. "I guess - if I survive I won't be much of a Witcher anymore." If she wasn't a witcher, then what was she? All she's known since stolen off the streets as a child, the witcher code branded on the forefront of her brain, she didn't know anything else.

"This is going to sound stupid." laughing to herself as she spoke aloud. "But you're probably the closest thing I have to a friend."

For now. Freydis kept that thought to herself. In the desolate wasteland of the tundra, the small band of women had fought their way through, Freydis had stopped to give Arros a break from the constant, bobbing pull of the sled when she became worried Arros would become too malaised to remain upright, or even on it. The jarl knew she’d be able to catch up with the other women, and that even a five-minute reprieve was enough to bring some relief to Arros. Besides, she needed to try and check on her symptoms, to see if there was anything else she could do for her. She had promised Arros at that time she would bring her back with them, though at the time she had feared more than anything that what she would bring back with her was a corpse. 

Freydis could see now that Arros was trying to assuage her concerns similarly, but she was not entirely successful. However, she was glad to see Arros was well enough to attempt to lie to her rather than mutter some feverish nonsense. The witcher needed care though, quickly. Though no scholar or oracle, Freydis knew the best they could hope for at the present was simply to stabilize Arros, to stop her from deteriorating further. She hoped she would not have to strong-arm the woman into agreeing to take rest with the healers–blighted as she was, Arros was still formidable. 

“You don’t owe me anything,” Freydis insisted, holding Arros’ gaze for a few moments before dropping her eyes in humility. This was not the life she had loved, but this was the life she had chosen–because it still offered her something and she could offer something to it: the ability to make good on promises not yet kept. “My role, by nature, demands that I act out of preservation for the best interest of Iskarans… I spent many years failing the greater portion of them. Including witchers.” Freydis would not elaborate, not here at least and, not until she was convinced Arros might be of like mind. But someone had spoken to her of liberation on the way to Nornwatch and Freydis felt she understood this now. Liberation, she felt, meant total separation from their king and his flawed honor code and martial law against all things that escaped his comprehension whether he viewed them as pawns, punching bags, or pets for his own gain. After all she had seen, both with the women and within her lifetime as Tove led her to believe that Orhan, and the kings before him, had led the kingdom into ruinous calamity. 

 “Oh, I think you’ll have to cheat death one last time before that happens,” she reminded Arros. She looked around for a moment, trying to get the lay of the camp. It took a moment, but she found the familiar face of a healer. “We need to get you to someone who can look after you. Once they get you comfortable, I can stay with you until you’re settled, or until you fall asleep.”

[emonaculate]

Looking Out for You

❄ Author's Note: No way! Em has the inspiration to write something? I did not forget about "S?ABT" it is my baby and I am currently revising some of the upcoming chapters I just wanted it to be more fleshed out before posting any updates. Anyways let me know what you guys think of this I am really proud of it and I love hearing your comments!

❄ Synopsis: Yn is grappling with the humbling experience of being gifted kid burnout, burdened by family turmoil, and the weight of her inner demons. Just before her senior year of high school, she's reluctantly roped into volunteering as a counselor and teacher at a winter camp. There, she formally meets Gojo Satoru—an aggravatingly handsome hockey player with an ego to match his skill, all charm, smirks, and know-it-all energy. Y/n doesn’t realize that beneath Gojo’s confident exterior lies a storm of his own—wounds he’s hidden just as deeply as she has.

The vinyl seats of the cruiser stuck to the back of Y/n’s thighs like a second skin, the plastic creaking every time she shifted her weight. Outside, the early winter evening painted the town in a watery gray haze—frosted windows, crooked streetlights buzzing faintly with static, and snow half-melted into dirty slush along the curb. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked like it had something to prove. Just when she thought her day couldn't get any fucking worse.

Y/n sat in the back of the cop car like it was routine—elbows propped on her knees, chin resting in her hand, face unreadable. The flashing lights had long since been turned off, but the phantom red-and-blue still pulsed behind her eyelids like an annoying screensaver. Across the windshield, her mother stood stiff in her department store coat, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was holding herself together just barely. Tired didn’t even begin to cover it. Her voice was low, tense, but Y/n couldn’t make out the words—just saw her lips move with the careful precision of someone trying not to snap. Again.

Next to her, the officer on duty leaned against the car door, one hand on his belt like he wanted this over ten minutes ago. He barely nodded, barely blinked. The third figure was who Y/n assumed to be the unfortunate owner of what she considered her latest masterpiece. Y/n’s gaze drifted lazily to her reflection in the scratched plastic partition, eyes half-lidded with indifference. Deep plum-colored shadows clung beneath her dull, hickory eyes—like bruises left behind by too many sleepless nights. Her hair, once long, uniform, and silken black, now barely grazed her shoulders in uneven layers, dyed a moody shade of wine that clashed with who she used to be.

If someone had shown this version of her to the girl she was five years ago—bright-eyed, polished, full of promise—she would’ve laughed in disbelief. Or cried. Maybe both. Y/n was snapped out of her daze by the creak of the cruiser door swinging open. Cold air rushed in, biting at her cheeks, but she barely flinched. Standing there, silhouetted against the dim streetlights, was the same officer who’d had the unfortunate task of throwing her into the back seat to begin with.

Her gaze drifted up to his face, and a slow, amused smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. There it was—a purplish bruise blooming across his cheekbone, just below his eye. Sloppy, but satisfying. She remembered the sharp jolt of her elbow making contact, the brief moment of chaos before they’d finally wrestled her into cuffs. Worth it.

“Good evening, officer,” she drawled, voice smooth with mock sweetness.

He didn’t answer, just leveled her with a look that said he was far too tired for her games. She stepped out of the car with practiced ease, shoulders relaxed, like she wasn’t the reason this entire scene had been set in motion. Y/n’s flicker of satisfaction vanished just as quickly as it had come—snuffed out by the sharp, familiar sting of her mother’s voice slicing through the cold air. Her full name. Said with that deadly, no-nonsense cadence that mothers seem to master from the moment they give birth to you. The kind of tone that meant no amount of smirking or silent rebellion was going to save her this time.

Y/n’s eyes flicked away from the officer, her smirk slipping into something colder. She shoved her hands deep into the frayed pockets of her oversized, black, ripped pants—the loose fabric hanging dangerously low on her hips. Her boots crunched softly against the snow-dusted pavement as she started toward her mother, each step weighted with the kind of practiced indifference only a teenage girl with a long list of mistakes could wear well. She didn’t walk fast. Didn’t look sorry. And she sure as hell didn’t plan on explaining herself.

"Yes, mother dearest?" Y/n’s voice dripped with sarcasm, a sickly sweet lilt curling off her tongue as she came to a lazy stop in front of her mother and the elderly shop owner. Her smile was insincere, daring.

Evangeline forced one of her own in return, but the twitch in her eye betrayed her composure. She was clearly clenching her jaw, holding back the thousand thoughts that must have been running through her head—none of them kind. Y/n knew the look well. She'd seen it every time she'd managed to sabotage yet another one of her mother’s carefully cultivated professional relationships. It was starting to become a pattern.

"I believe you owe Mr. Soraoka an apology," Evangeline said evenly, though her voice was tight. "For breaking into his store and destroying his property. You are very, very lucky he’s chosen not to press charges."

Y/n rolled her eyes, slow and deliberate, then turned to the elderly man beside her. He looked as soft as he sounded—kindness etched into the wrinkles of his face, his hands folded gently in front of him.

"Nonsense," Mr. Soraoka said with a chuckle, waving dismissively at Evangeline as if she'd just suggested something absurd. "After all you did for me when my wife passed, helping me manage the will and keep the shop… It’s the least I can do, Mrs. Kashiwagi."

Evangeline froze—her lips parted slightly, like she might correct him. But before she could speak, it was too late. Y/n's eyes glittered with something venomous as her smirk sharpened.

"Oh, you haven’t heard, sir?" she said lightly, though the bitterness was unmistakable. "She got remarried. I’m the only Kashiwagi now. Especially since he’s gone. Guess it’s up to me to carry on the family legacy—"

She didn’t finish. The words caught in her throat, burning like acid as the emotion snuck up on her—uninvited, unwelcome. Her voice faltered, and she blinked fast, hoping it would stop the tears before they had the audacity to fall. Not here. Not in front of her mother.

Especially not in front of her.

"M’going to the car," Y/n mumbled, voice raw and small as she rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and walked away, ignoring the sound of her mother calling her back.

Evangeline stood still, her shoulders stiff as her daughter disappeared toward the car. Her lips pressed into a hard line, then softened with a sigh—quiet and resigned. She turned back to Mr. Soraoka, offering a hollow laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Teenagers…" she muttered. "One minute they’re crawling all over you, and the next they wish you didn’t exist."

Mr. Soraoka didn’t laugh. He watched her carefully, taking in the exhaustion beneath her polished exterior. Her beauty was undeniable—graceful, poised, but weathered by years of silent struggle. It was obvious to anyone who looked close enough: the past four years had worn her thin. The sudden loss of her husband. A daughter spiraling in grief and rebellion. Balancing her career as a foreigner running her own law firm in Tokyo—none of it had been easy.

"Thank you again," she said after a pause, her voice gentler now, bowing slightly in respect. "For not pressing charges. She’s… she’s a good girl. She’s just been through a lot."

Mr. Soraoka nodded slowly, his expression shifting from solemn to certain.

"Actually," he said, tone suddenly firmer, "I do have one request."

Evangeline blinked, caught off guard. There was something knowing in his eyes now—something resolute. He’d seen this before: a teenager so full of anger they couldn’t feel anything else. A family worn thin. A mother doing her best to hold everything together. And he remembered how a place, a purpose, had once helped another broken-hearted Kashiwagi find peace.

"I know exactly what she needs," Mr. Soraoka said, quietly but with conviction.

"It worked for her father. Why not her?"

Y/n lay sprawled on her bed, eyes fixed on the faded constellation stickers scattered across her ceiling—little glimmers of soft green glowing faintly in the dark. They were uneven, a little crooked, their edges peeling with age, but to her, they were perfect. Each one a frozen moment, a quiet echo from a simpler time. She remembered exactly how they got there. It was a memory etched into her mind with sharp clarity—one she often revisited when everything else felt like it was slipping out of focus.

She’d been a wide-eyed little girl, full of wonder and stubborn ideas. And she had begged her father to put the stars up—despite his initial protests about how tacky they would look compared to his carefully curated, traditional Japanese decor. Shoji screens, minimalist calligraphy, warm cedarwood tones… and glow-in-the-dark plastic stars? Absolutely not.

But her father, Harukemi, caved, as he always did when it came to his baby girl. His only baby girl. She remembered sitting on his broad, heavily tattooed shoulders as they worked together to scatter the stickers across the ceiling. Her tiny fingers peeled each one carefully while he guided her from below, one large hand pointing to where each star should go, the other steadying her.

"Why do constellations even exist?" she had asked in that childlike wonder voice that always made him flash his dimple-filled smile.

He hummed thoughtfully before answering, as if plucking the story from the stars themselves.

"They’re people who chose not to be reincarnated," Harukemi said, voice baritone and tender. "Because they wanted to stay close to the one they were fated to love in this life."

Y/n had gone quiet, thinking hard. Then—

"But what if someone chooses to be reincarnated… and their soulmate doesn’t?"

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated in her small frame. Nothing got past his little girl; her big brain definitely came from Eve.

"Then they become brand new galaxies," he answered, after a short moment of thought. "Endless and vast—so they can keep searching, lifetime after lifetime, until they find each other again."

She placed the final sticker—an uneven little crescent moon—before he gently lifted her from his shoulders and cradled her close to his chest. Warm. Safe. Home. The creak of her bedroom door pulled Y/n abruptly from the safety of her thoughts. She scowled instinctively, already prepared to snap at whoever had dared to interrupt her rare moment of peace. Her expression fell flat the second she saw who it was.

Kiara. Of course. Her fifteen-year-old stepsister stood awkwardly in the doorway, refusing to make eye contact, as if she already knew she was unwelcome.

"Dad cooked, if you're hungry." Kiyara muttered, voice low and uncertain.

Y/n narrowed her eyes, her tone flat and dismissive. "Heard. Now leave."

Kiara hesitated for a moment, her jaw twitching with something unsaid. Then she turned on her heel with a muttered comment under her breath—inaudible but definitely laced with attitude—before slamming the door behind her. Y/n didn’t even flinch.

Instead, she picked up her phone and scrolled aimlessly through her gallery, her thumb pausing on every photo of her father. There were dozens—maybe hundreds. Him beaming behind her as she skated on wobbly legs at the ice rink. The two of them in front of a massive lion enclosure at the zoo. A blurry shot of them eating cotton candy on a roller coaster platform. Them being at the dance studio he taught regularly at. Her sitting on the back of his dangerous motorcycle, holding a box of groceries like it was some grand mission.

They weren’t just photos. They were proof. Little frozen frames of a world where she felt understood. Where someone looked at her and saw her—not a problem to be fixed or a responsibility to pass off. Sometimes she wondered if he was the only person in the whole world who ever truly got her... and now he was gone.

After a while of more bed-rotting, Y/n forced herself up and threw on a random oversized graphic t-shirt and left her room to find something to eat. Like hell she'd eat anything made by that sorry attempt at replacing her father. Instead, she slipped down the hall toward the kitchen, her socks silent against the hardwood floor. The house was too quiet—eerily so. Like it was holding its breath.

She opened the fridge, pulled out a crisp Fuji apple, and set it on the counter. The dull slice of the kitchen knife against the cutting board was rhythmic, familiar. She reached for a slice, but stopped mid-motion. Her eyes caught on something. Or rather—the absence of something. The key. The old brass key that always hung on the tiny hook in the dining room alcove, just beside the display shelf with her dad’s tea set. The key to his study. His sanctuary. It was gone. Y/n’s heart skipped. No. No one touched that room. No one was supposed to.

Her limbs moved before her thoughts could catch up, leaving the apple slices forgotten on the cutting board as she stormed down the hallway, anxiety building in her throat like bile. Her breathing quickened. The world narrowed. The door to his study—a door that had remained sealed since the day of the funeral—was cracked open. Y/n froze for just a moment. Her stomach dropped. Then she pushed it open. Empty. The room was empty.

The shelves that once held her father’s meticulously organized books, his framed photographs and tattoo designs, his incense burner and ink brushes—gone. His desk, where he spent hours scribbling in his worn leather journal, empty. The rug they used to sit on when she’d draw while he worked—rolled up. Even the scent of sandalwood and old paper had vanished, replaced with sterile emptiness.

And then came the sound. It tore out of her chest, raw and guttural—a sharp, shattering cry that cracked through the silence like glass meeting concrete. Not loud. Just devastating. She stood frozen in the center of the hollow room, fists clenched, nails digging crescents into her palms. Her grief was no longer silent. Then came the footsteps. And around the corner, as if summoned by her pain, came him...her mother's new husband, Evan. Holding a box.

Her father’s box. She saw it before she saw the rest of him. The edge of her dad’s favorite scarf hung out from the top, crushed beneath God knows what else—loose papers, a ceramic pen holder, maybe even the sketch of her he kept by the window.

Y/n felt like she was going to explode. There were not enough crude words in the entire world that would help express what exactly she was feeling in the moment.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

Her voice wasn’t loud—but it was sharp, jagged. Evan (the step-father in question) froze mid-step, eyes widening for a second. He looked ridiculous standing there with a cardboard box of memories he had no right to touch.

"Y/n, your mother and I—"

"Don’t. Don’t you dare say her name right now." Her voice wavered slightly, but the fury was taking over, swallowing the ache like a firestorm.

"This was his space. This—this is all I have left of him!"

The older man’s mouth opened, then closed again. He looked down at the box in his hands as if just realizing the weight of what he was holding. It appeared that he was mentally weighing the options of pissing off the angst teenage ticking time bomb or upset his wife. Evan had never been a strong-willed man; he was rather timid in all aspects of his life and preferred to stay out of the limelight whenever possible. How he managed to pull a woman like Evangeline was beyond him.

"Put it down. Now." Y/n stepped forward, eyes blazing.

“Put it down.”

Y/n’s voice trembled, not from fear—but from fury. Her fists were clenched, her entire body taut like a rubber band stretched too tight.

“Put. It. Down.”

Evan didn’t move. He adjusted his grip on the box instead, standing a little taller. “Y/n, this stuff doesn’t belong in a shrine anymore. It’s been four years—your mom and I agreed it was time to clear the space.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat.

“You mean erase him.” She sneered at the man.

He exhaled through his nose, clearly trying to stay calm. “That’s not what this is.”

But she was already shaking her head.

“You don’t get to decide when I let him go. You don’t even get to touch his things.”

His jaw tightened. “Y/n—”

“You moved into his house. Slept in his bed. Fucked and married her. You don’t give a damn about what he meant to me!”

That’s when his composure slipped. Y/n had a really bad habit of getting under people's skin and making them feel as ugly as she felt most days on the inside.

“You’ve had four years to grieve, Y/n. How much more do you need?” He let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

The silence that followed was deafening. Even he looked like he hadn’t meant to say it. His face paled instantly, regret flickering across his features like a crack in glass. But the damage was already done.

Y/n’s eyes went wide—then narrowed into a sharp, unforgiving glare. Her grief ignited like gasoline hitting open flame. Without thinking, she lunged forward, her hands grabbing at the box, shoving him backwards, sending some of her father’s belongings tumbling to the ground.

“You selfish—soulless—bastard! Spineless piece of shit” she screamed, shoving him again.

He stumbled, catching himself on the wall, just as Y/n kicked the box across the hall. The contents spilled—a watch, a framed photo of her as a toddler, an old Japanese poetry book. Pieces of a life that didn’t belong to him. Before she could do more, a sharp voice cut through the chaos.

“Y/N!”

Evangeline’s heels clicked furiously across the floor, phone still clutched in hand, freshly off yet another business call. Her expression was tight and tired, but her eyes were blazing.

“What is wrong with you?”

Y/n turned to face her, chest heaving, throat raw.

“Me? What’s wrong with me? Is everyone in this fucking house insane?” Y/n hissed in frustration.

And then it all spilled out—everything she’d been holding in for years.

“You wanna talk about what’s wrong? Let’s start with the fact that you haven’t looked at me since Dad died. You checked out! Mentally, emotionally—everything. And you only got your life together after he showed up!” Y/n jabbed a finger toward her stepfather.

“That’s not true,” Evangeline snapped, her voice dangerously low.

“Oh, please! You left me to drown in this damn house with the ghosts of yesterday, and now you want to punish me for acting out? Maybe if you were actually around, I wouldn’t have turned into this mess you keep trying to fix!”

“You barely passed this semester, Y/n! You don’t even try anymore!” Evangeline’s voice rose with every word, “You walk around looking like you haven’t seen a mirror in weeks! You’re mean, cruel to everyone who tries to care. You shoplift! You vandalize shops! You stopped ice skating—you were good, Y/n. You don't dance anymore You could’ve gone somewhere with it! But you gave up on everything.”

Y/n’s mouth fell open in disbelief. No way. No way her mother could be this delusional. What the fuck do you think happens when you leave a freshly fourteen year old whose father just died alone to process grief?

“You think I gave up? Maybe I just didn’t have anyone left to fight for. Maybe I was too busy surviving in a house where my mother pretended I didn’t exist!”

Evangeline’s eyes burned with unshed tears. She needed to calm down; this is not how she wanted this conversation to go. It wasn't time yet.

“I was grieving too—”

“Bullshit!” Y/n screamed, “You didn’t grieve! You buried yourself in your job and him, and pretended Dad never existed! You left me behind. You weren’t there. Not once. Not when I needed you. Not when I cried for him at night. Not when I stopped eating. Not when I begged for someone to see me—you weren’t there!”

Evangeline’s voice cracked with something low and furious; to hell with trying to spare feelings and save face. Clearly, Y/n only understood when people stooped to her level. She was just as headstrong as Harukemi, only less endearing.

“He might have been your dad…” Evangeline started, teeth clenched,“…but he was my husband. I lost my husband. And now I’m stuck with a horrible, entitled child who blames the whole world for her pain.”

Silence. Time stopped. And then, slowly, Y/n's expression hardened into something unreadable. Her lips parted—and the words came out like venom.

“It should have been you.”

Evangeline went still. The color drained from her face. Her mouth opened slightly in shock—but no words came. Only silence. Cold, sharp, final. Then, as if something inside her snapped, her face shut down. Emotionless. Cold.

“You’ll be attending Tengen’s Star on Ice Camp,” she said flatly, “It’s two months. After that, you’ll finish your final year of high school. Then—when you turn eighteen—you can leave. Go wherever the hell you want. I don’t care anymore. I'm done.”

She turned and walked away. Her pathetic husband followed right behind her, calling after her, but to no avail. Kiyara, who had witnessed the closing remarks, looked at her stepsister with a sad expression on her face as she bent down and picked up the items that had fallen out of the box. Y/n watched the girl with an unreadable expression as Kiyara finally sat the box down in front of her before making a quiet exit out of the hall.

Y/n stood there, still breathing hard, her chest tight, her throat raw. The box lay at her feet—scattered memories of a better time. She didn't cry. She just stood there. Alone. Again.

The weeks leading up to Y/n’s departure bled together in cold silence. She spent most of her time barricaded in her room, headphones in, lights off, buried beneath thick blankets like a fortress. When the walls felt too tight or the air too stale, she’d slip out unnoticed, making her way to the same ice rink she’d frequented as a child.

She never brought her skates. She just watched. Children laughed as they stumbled on the ice, couples clung to one another for balance, and seasoned skaters sliced across the frozen surface like it was second nature. It should have brought her joy—the sound of blades scraping ice, the smell of hot chocolate, the familiar hum of music from the old speakers—but now, it just felt like another reminder of everything she'd lost. Of everything that had changed.

No words had been exchanged between her and Evangeline since that day. Not a glance. Not a knock on the door. Nothing. The house was too big for that kind of silence, but somehow, they managed. And that, in itself, said everything. It was clear where the two stood now. No bridges left to burn. Just ash and distance.

Y/n told herself she was fine with that; she was seventeen now, anyway, only a couple of months left, and she could go wherever she wanted. Finally free. Finally unburdened. She could leave soon—really leave—and never come back. No more suffocating conversations. No more sideways looks. No more pretending. No regrets.

At least, that’s what she whispered to herself as she stared at the rink through fogged glass, heart aching in a way she couldn’t quite name. Because grief had a funny way of hiding itself in the quiet. And loneliness? It was best disguised as freedom. The night of her departure arrived cloaked in a thick, still quiet—the kind that seemed to hang in the air like a breath being held.

Y/n stood in the middle of her dimly lit room, zipping up the second of two small duffle bags. She hadn’t bothered to organize them with any real thought. A few sweaters, worn jeans, a couple pairs of shoes, and the same black hoodie she always wore when she didn’t want to be noticed. That was enough. It wasn’t like she cared to impress anyone at the camp. She wasn't going to make friends. She wasn’t going to start over.

She was just… going. She threw the bags near her bedroom door and sat down on the edge of her bed, the mattress creaking slightly under her weight. Her eyes flicked up to the ceiling, where the faded glow-in-the-dark constellation stickers still clung stubbornly to the plaster like ghosts of her childhood. They didn’t shine like they used to.

She leaned over to grab the crumpled scarf from her nightstand—the one that had belonged to her father. She wasn’t sure when she’d started sleeping with it under her pillow, but the scent had long since faded. Still, her fingers ran over the frayed edge like it might anchor her to something—anything—that felt real.

No one had said goodbye. Evangeline hadn’t even come to her room. Not that she expected her to. Not anymore. Y/n gave one last glance around the space that had once been her whole world before standing up, slipping her duffle straps over her shoulders. As she opened her bedroom door, the hallway light buzzed dimly above her. She didn’t look back. There was nothing left here for her to hold onto.

Just before leaving her room, Y/n paused. Her eyes lingered on the worn pair of ice skates tucked in the corner beneath her bookshelf—dust collecting lightly on the laces, blades dulled from lack of use. She told herself it was pointless to bring them. But her hand reached out anyway. Just in case.

The train platform was quiet, kissed by early morning frost and a sky still painted in faded hues of lavender and silver. Y/n boarded the nearly empty carriage, choosing a window seat near the back where she could stretch out, headphones already looped around her neck.

As the train lurched into motion, the city bled away behind her, tall buildings and traffic slowly giving way to open roads and fields blanketed in snow. They passed through valleys where the sun peeked through clouds, casting golden halos over snow-covered pines. Mountains loomed in the distance, their ridges softened by white drifts, like powdered sugar over a dream.

Snowflakes danced against the windows, soft and slow, like the sky was exhaling. Y/n leaned against the glass, pressing her cheek to the chill. She thumbed through her phone until she found it—the wedding playlist. The one her dad had made for Evangeline all those years ago. An odd mix of Motown classics, begging and pleading R&B (Harukemi's words, not hers), soft jazz, and powerful Japanese ballads her father had adored. She pressed play. Let it wash over her. She didn’t cry. She just... listened. And slowly, the lull of the train and the warmth of the music pulled her into sleep. When she woke, the train had stopped moving. A soft nudge pulled her from her dreams.

“Hey,” a voice said gently. “We’re here. You slept for a while.”

Y/n blinked groggily, squinting against the now-orange glow of the setting sun slanting through the train windows. She turned to find herself not alone, as she had thought. Her head had somehow—and she had no idea how—ended up resting against a stranger’s shoulder. A boy. He wore distressed black jeans, a tattered band tee under a plaid flannel, and a chain hanging from his belt loop. His ears were lined with mismatched silver piercings, and a subtle nose ring curved through his nostril. His shaggy shoulder-length dark brown hair peeked out from under a beanie that looked like it had seen better days. Despite the grunge armor, his expression was soft. Genuinely concerned.

“I—” Y/n scrambled upright, suddenly embarrassed at just how long she had been lying on him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—fall asleep—on you.”

He smiled a little, brushing off his shoulder like it was nothing. “It’s alright. You looked tired.”

His voice was calm. Unassuming. Not what she expected. Y/n mumbled a vague “thanks” under her breath, already avoiding eye contact as she grabbed her bags and skates. Her body was stiff from the five-hour nap, her pride even stiffer. She didn’t know what was worse—accidentally sleeping on a stranger or the fact that it had been the best sleep she’d had in months. No point in thinking about it now. She had a camp to survive. The cold bit at Y/n’s cheeks the moment she stepped off the train, her boots crunching into fresh snow that sparkled like crushed diamonds beneath the setting sun. Her breath came out in visible puffs as she took in the scene around her.

Everywhere she looked, groups of late teens and young adults were laughing, hugging, or shouting each other’s names across the platform. Some had clearly been coming to this camp for years—joking like old friends reunited. It was loud, chaotic, and warm in that annoying way that made her feel even more isolated. She kept her distance, clutching the strap of her bag tightly as she walked past them. Her skates were slung over her shoulder, bouncing lightly with every step. Then, her eyes lifted.

Beyond the crowd, the camp stretched out like something from a storybook. Wooden lodges lined with twinkling string lights. Candy cane–striped poles marking the paths. Icicles dripping from rooftops. Flakes of snow gently drifted down in slow spirals from the mountain ranges behind the camp, making the whole place look like a snow globe someone had just shaken. It was... beautiful. Painfully so.

“Still not impressed?”

A hand landed gently on her shoulder. Y/n shivered from the cold feeling of metal touching her exposed skin. Maybe wearing an off-shoulder sweatshirt wasn't the best idea. Just how many rings did one person need to wear on one hand? Y/n turned and met the gentle gaze of the boy from the train. He stood beside her now, lips tilted into a slight half-smile. It was like he was silently telling her to get used to seeing him because he wasn't going anywhere.

“Choso,” he said simply, offering the name like a quiet olive branch.

Y/n gave a small nod. “Y/n.”

He glanced around the camp. “Looks like we’re stuck here for a while.”

She let out a soft exhale through her nose. “Fantastic.”

Before either of them could say more, movement pulled their attention toward the entrance gates of the camp, where a raised wooden stage stood decorated with garlands of evergreen and silver ribbon.

Five figures approached it, stepping up onto the platform, followed closely by none other than Mr. Soraoka himself—his cane tapping lightly against the wood as he smiled at the crowd. Y/n’s eyes flicked to the five people flanking him. They were clearly counselors or returning seniors, dressed more put together than the chaos of everyone else. But one in particular stood out—like an explosion of sunlight on a cloudy day. A tall boy.

His hair was impossibly white—almost the same color as the snow around them—and fluffed out like freshly fallen powder. His skin glowed under the lights with a slight tan, and his eyes, an electric blue, scanned the crowd with practiced ease. Thick-rimmed glasses rested lazily on top of his head, pushed up like he hadn’t decided if he needed them or not.

He wore a baby blue oversized crewneck on it was a small logo belonging to a brand Y/n did could not make out, with a crisp white collared shirt peeking out from underneath the crewneck. The sleeves strained slightly over thick, muscular arms, the kind you wouldn’t expect someone so pretty to have. His legs, despite being mostly covered by mid-length khaki cargo shorts (how was he not cold?), still showcased evidence of a life well-lived—small bandaids, healed scrapes, light bruises like he collected them for fun. And on his feet—classic tan Timberlands, dusted in snow. He was… effortlessly chaotic. And irritatingly eye-catching.

The murmurs of the crowd quieted as Mr. Soraoka stepped to the center of the small wooden stage, the falling snow settling softly on his dark wool coat. Though his age showed in the curve of his spine and the lines around his kind eyes, his voice rang out strong and full of warmth.

“Welcome, welcome, my dear volunteers,” he began, raising his arms wide. “I must say, seeing all of you here so early, so eager to give back… it fills this old heart with joy.”

A soft round of applause rippled through the crowd.

“This camp,” he continued, motioning to the snow-covered grounds behind him, “was founded many years ago by my great-grandfather, Tengen. A man with a wild soul and a heart bigger than this mountain. He believed in the magic of youth, in the gift of joy, and most importantly—in the power of discovery.”

He paused, letting the wind carry his words.

“Tengen’s Star on Ice wasn’t just a winter camp. It was a place for children to find themselves, to build confidence through skill, to make friends who feel like family, and to create memories that last lifetimes.”

All around Y/n, heads nodded in agreement. It was clear—most of these people had lived that magic.

“Many of you were once those wide-eyed kids, bundled in oversized scarves and falling on your faces in the snow,” Mr. Soraoka chuckled, the crowd joining him. “And now look at you. Back here again, this time not as campers, but as guides. Mentors. Counselors. It’s your turn now—to carry the torch, to be the magic for someone else.”

Y/n’s eyes drifted upward, snowflakes catching in her lashes. Something in her chest shifted, uncomfortably so.

“And now,” Mr. Soraoka smiled, “let me introduce the people who have not only walked this path before you—but have practically carved it into the snow.”

He gestured to the five figures lined up beside him.

“First, our head counselors. You’ll report to them with questions, concerns, or if you simply need someone to talk to. Think of them as an extension of me; if they say it.. I said it.”

One by one, they stepped forward.

“Suguru Geto, let's make this break a good one. ” The tall, calm boy with a soft bun gave a graceful bow, hands tucked neatly behind his back. While he appeared kind and sweet, his baggy attire gave a different impression, especially with the piercing through his lip, and the slight condescending look as he gazed down at the crowd.

“Shoko Ieiri, stay out of the infirmary this year, please.” A girl with short, choppy hair and tired but kind eyes waved lazily, cigarette tucked behind one ear despite the posted no-smoking sign nearby.

“Utahime Iori, I'll do my best to not let you all down.” Stern and elegant, she bowed crisply, her dark bob unmoving even in the breeze.

“Nanami Kento,” who seemed to be the only counselor who wore a uniform, even in the snow, nodded sharply. “Follow the rules,” he said flatly. “And we’ll all survive the winter.”

Soft laughter bubbled through the group.

“And finally,” Mr. Soraoka sighed as though preparing himself, “Gojo Satoru.”

So his name was Gojo Satoru. The name fit him oddly. He stepped forward, flashing a blinding smile as he lifted his hands to gesture a peace sign.

“Call me Gojo,” He introduced himself innocently before sticking his tongue out and tugging his oversized baby blue sweater halfway up to reveal a flash of a very well-defined set of abs beneath.

The crowd erupted. Cheers, whoops, and groans of recognition. Utahime muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Shoko rolled her eyes. Nanami visibly pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Put your damn shirt down, Satoru,” Suguru sighed, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smirk.

Gojo obeyed—eventually—and shot the crowd a wink.

Mr. Soraoka let out a deep belly laugh. “If I were twenty years younger, I’d be just like him.”

Then, his eyes scanned the crowd again. Y/n shifted uncomfortably. Something about the look he was giving… And then it happened. The old man’s grin widened.

“This year,” he said, his voice now layered with something impish, “we’re doing things a little differently. In the spirit of growth—and to make this year even more unforgettable—we’re not stopping at five head counselors.”

A hush fell over the crowd, followed by an excited murmur.

“We’ve decided to add one more.”

Cheers. Whispers. A few confused expressions.

“Settle down,” came Nanami’s sharp tone, instantly restoring order.

“Thank you, Kento,” Mr. Soraoka chuckled. Then he straightened, his voice rising with significance.

“I would like to welcome our sixth counselor this year—a new face to some of you, perhaps. But to me… someone I’ve watched grow from a bright-eyed little girl to a force of her own.”

Y/n’s blood ran cold. Oh, no.

“Please welcome… Y/n Kashiwagi. Come on up here, my dear.”

A thousand eyes turned. Y/n froze. She didn’t move. Gojo’s eyebrow arched with intrigue. Choso looked over at her with a flicker of concern.

Mr. Soraoka just smiled warmly. “Don’t be shy now.”

Y/n’s legs felt like lead as she forced one foot in front of the other, the snow crunching softly beneath her boots as she reluctantly made her way toward the stage. The murmurs were like thunder in her ears. She kept her gaze low, wishing she could melt into the ice-covered ground. This had to be his twisted revenge for what she did to his shop. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t like them. Just as she was about to step up, a sharp voice pierced through the cold air like a dagger.

“Excuse me,” a girl’s voice snapped. “Why is it that some random newcomer gets to be a counselor, but people who’ve attended this camp for years are overlooked?”

A ripple of gasps spread through the crowd like wildfire. More voices rose in agreement.

“Yeah, that’s not fair—”

“She’s never even been a camper—”

“What makes her so special?”

Y/n’s chest tightened as the angry buzz of the crowd grew louder, the warmth in her cheeks turning into a stifling burn. Her breath hitched in her throat. She didn’t know where to look. Her vision blurred. Her heart raced. They were right. They didn’t know her. And they already hated her. She didn’t even see Choso move until his hand engulfed hers—cool, large, steady.

“C’mon,” he said, voice low but firm, pulling her gently but quickly away from the center of attention.

She stumbled for a moment, overwhelmed by the noise, the eyes, the shame. She didn’t like being touched, not really, but this… this wasn’t bad. This was grounding. Her panic softened into a numb daze as Choso guided her down a snow-dusted path toward the staff cabins. They passed rows of tall pine trees, the smell of fresh snow and wood smoke hanging in the air. The camp’s chatter faded behind them, replaced by the quiet crunch of boots in the snow and Y/n’s quickened breathing.

Choso stopped at one of the cabins—dark wood, slightly weathered, icicles dangling from the roof. He pushed the door open and led her inside before shutting it behind them with a soft click. The cabin was small but warm, rustic with a couple of bunk beds, soft blankets folded neatly, and a heater humming softly in the corner. Y/n stood frozen in place, unsure of what to say, what to feel, what to do. She looked up only to find Choso staring at her, one dark brow raised in quiet question. His look wasn’t judgmental—it was curious. Calm. Like he was trying to figure her out, but wouldn’t press if she didn’t want to explain. Y/n felt her hands clench at her sides.

“I didn’t know,” she muttered. “They didn’t tell me. I didn’t ask to be some special sixth counselor or whatever.”

Choso nodded once, slowly. Still silent.

“I just… I didn’t even want to come here.”

Still nothing. His silence was almost irritating. But not in a bad way. More like… it gave her space to think. She hadn't ever experienced such kindness from a total stranger. This camp is way too weird.

Y/n sighed heavily, shoulders sagging. “All I wanted to do was coast through this whole thing. Now everyone knows who I am and already has some stupid ass opinion. So that’s great.”

Choso finally moved. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his black long-sleeve, still silent but exuding a calm that somehow made the air less suffocating. She looked at him again. The nose ring. The dark eyes. The face tattoo across the bridge of his nose. The chipped black nail polish on his fingers. The cool indifference in his stance. And yet, he’d pulled her out of the fire without hesitation. She swallowed thickly and turned away, hugging her arms around herself.

“…Thanks,” she said quietly, almost too soft to hear.

Choso shrugged. “Didn’t want you to pass out on me. You looked like you were gonna.”

Y/n huffed a laugh, bitter and embarrassed.

He looked over at her again. “You good?”

She hesitated, then gave a weak nod.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward the door, pausing before opening it. “Take a breath. Let ’em cool off. I’ll be outside.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he stepped out into the snow and shut the door behind him. Y/n was left in the still cabin, her chest slowly rising and falling as she stared at the closed door, wondering why the hell he had helped her. And more importantly—what the hell she was supposed to do now?

Y/n sat on the edge of one of the lower bunks, the tension still coiled tight in her chest like a snake ready to strike. She sighed and raised a hand to her head, running her fingers through the thick, dyed strands of her hair—a nervous tick she hadn’t realized she’d started doing again. But her fingers snagged halfway through.

“Shit,” she muttered, wincing as she tugged them free. Her hair was dry and tangled from weeks of neglect. Frizzy at the ends, dull in color, no real shape. And her hoodie had a paint stain across the sleeve from when she "accidentally" vandalized the corner store with her latest emotional outburst.

For the first time in months… she felt it. That weird gnawing feeling in her gut. Self-consciousness. Y/n stared down at her scuffed boots. The old ones her dad bought her for a winter trip years ago. They were still her favorite, but the soles were half worn. She bit the inside of her cheek and slapped both cheeks lightly.

"Pull it together," she whispered to herself. "They don’t know you. They don’t matter."

But the truth was—they did. Somehow, this place already felt heavier than home. Like the air here carried expectations she hadn’t agreed to meet. That speech, that title, those eyes. All of it made her feel like she’d walked into a play halfway through and someone shoved her on stage without a script. She needed to find Mr. Soraoka. Say something. Apologize, maybe. Explain that she had zero business mentoring anyone when she could barely take care of herself. Offer to clean bathrooms, collect trash, whatever. Anything but being a counselor.

She stood, ready to do just that when the cabin door creaked open. Nanami Kento. Blond hair perfectly parted. Sweater vest and slacks like he stepped out of a different universe. His eyes didn’t just look at her—they evaluated. Cold. Precise. Y/n stiffened under his stare.

“Mr. Soraoka wishes to see you,” he said, voice clipped, professional. “Now. His office. The rest of the counselors will be present.”

The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Y/n opened her mouth to speak—maybe to ask if she had to go, or why everyone was there—but Nanami had already turned on his heel, expecting her to follow. She exhaled shakily and grabbed her hoodie, yanking it straight over her shoulder. No more time for breathing. No more space to think.

Y/n trailed behind Nanami, the silence between them almost comforting in its awkwardness. No lecturing, no side-eyeing, no passive aggressive remarks—just quiet footsteps crunching against the snow-packed gravel path. But even that peace was short-lived. As they passed the last staff cabin, Choso stood waiting. Arms crossed, brows knit together, that ever-present calm demeanor fraying at the edges. The worry on his face was so out of place on someone who looked like he regularly got into fights behind convenience stores.

Y/n’s steps slowed, and before she could overthink it, she gave him a small, reassuring smile. Barely there, but honest. Choso blinked at her in surprise—just for a moment—before giving a subtle nod in return. Maybe… tolerating one person here wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Her eyes drifted to the windows they passed. The reflections were not kind. Each glimpse at herself dragged her confidence down another notch. Her hoodie hung awkwardly, the sleeves bunched at the elbows, the frizz of her hair puffing like an unbrushed storm cloud. Dark under-eyes. Dull complexion. Just a mess.

Y/n clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Son of a bitch”

With a few deft motions, she tugged a loose drawstring from her hoodie and quickly pulled her curls into a high puff, gently leaving a few strands out in the front to soften the look and avoid pulling too tight. She tied the paint-stained hoodie around her waist in a practiced swoop, letting it cover the worst of her jeans, then adjusted her off-shoulder sweatshirt so it slouched in a purposeful, grungy kind of way.

She bent to fix the cuffs of her ripped jeans, folding them neatly above her winter boots before retightening the laces with quick, precise tugs. Was this her best? No. But it was the version of her that wouldn’t walk into a room looking like she just lost a bar fight with her bedroom mirror. Nanami paused just before the door to Mr. Soraoka’s office. He glanced back at her—just a second longer than necessary.

“You look… better,” he said, then cleared his throat as if the words tasted weird.

Y/n quirked a brow at him.

“I meant… composed.”

She almost laughed. Almost.

But then, his expression softened, only slightly. His eyes lowered in thought, then lifted to meet hers as he spoke quietly.

“Don’t stress too much.”

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t casual. But coming from Nanami Kento, who she had already deduced did not hold his tongue by any means at all. That was practically a bear hug of encouragement. Y/n nodded once, then followed him as he pushed open the door. Inside, five pairs of eyes turned toward her.

Mr. Soraoka smiled warmly from behind his old oak desk, surrounded by Gojo, Suguru, Shoko, Utahime, and Nanami—who stepped aside to stand near the back. The room crackled with layered personalities and long-standing familiarity. And then there was Y/n. The outsider. She swallowed hard and kept her chin up. Time to find out what the hell this was all about. Or get on her knees and beg for him to have mercy. Mr. Soraoka’s warm expression brightened the moment Y/n stepped into the room. He sat up straighter in his worn leather chair, the aged wood creaking beneath him as he adjusted himself with purpose.

“Ah, Y/n,” he said, voice honey-smooth with that signature glint of affection only old mentors seemed to master. “I’m glad you came so quickly.”

His voice lowered in tone—not scolding, not stern, but something in between serious and apologetic. “First and foremost, allow me to offer a proper apology. What happened earlier… that introduction, the crowd, the chaos—it wasn’t right to spring that on you the way I did. That should’ve been a private conversation, not some grand stage reveal.”

Y/n blinked slowly but kept her gaze fixed on him, her posture stiff but not defensive anymore. His words—while they didn’t erase what happened—meant something. Enough to let her exhale, even if only just a little.

“I take full responsibility for the discomfort you endured,” he added. “It was unfair.”

She nodded, barely. Just enough. Mr. Soraoka’s eyes crinkled slightly, the smile that returned was softer this time—gentler.

“But I do mean what I said. You are the sixth counselor this year. That’s not a stunt. It’s not some filler role. It’s real.”

Y/n’s brows creased, but she said nothing.

He chuckled quietly. “I knew it from the moment we crossed paths in that shop downtown. You remember—the one you decided to redecorate with spray paint and attitude?”

The tension in her shoulders spiked immediately. Ah. There it was. The first true reaction. Her jaw clenched instinctively, but her gaze faltered—just for a second. The surprise, the unease at that being brought up in front of the others—until she realized… they weren’t reacting.A quick glance confirmed it: confusion colored the faces of Gojo, Suguru, Shoko, Utahime, and even Nanami. They didn’t know. Mr. Soraoka hadn’t told them anything. And that... was a relief.

She opened her mouth, her voice dry as dust. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

His brow rose, but he stayed silent.

“I didn’t come here to inspire anyone or… make kids feel magical or whatever. I’m just here to cruise through winter break and stay out of trouble.” She tried to keep her tone measured, but it wavered on the edges. “That’s it.”

Mr. Soraoka’s smile disappeared—not into disappointment, but into something far heavier. A solemn silence settled over him before he gently waved his hand toward the counselors.

“Would you all give us a moment?” he asked softly.

Gojo made a dramatic sound of disappointment but stood anyway. Suguru sighed, sharing a look with Shoko as they both gave Y/n a final, unreadable glance. Utahime said nothing, her expression unreadable. Nanami was the last to leave, giving Y/n a longer look than the others before quietly stepping out and closing the door behind him. And then it was just them. Mr. Soraoka and Y/n.

The old man leaned forward slightly, fingers lacing together atop the desk. When he spoke, his voice was low.

“You’re right. You didn’t come here for this.”

Y/n didn’t respond. Just stood stiffly.

“But Y/n… you’re not here by accident. You may not believe in fate, or timing, or second chances. That’s fine. I won’t try to change that today. But I will tell you this: I see something in you. The kind of something that Tengen dreamed this camp would uncover in people. Even if they don’t see it in themselves.”

Y/n’s lips parted slightly, unsure what to say to that.

“You’re not broken,” he added gently. “You’re grieving. And grief can make you feel ugly. It can make you act ugly. But it doesn’t make you unworthy of healing. Or of finding something beautiful on the other side.”

The words hit deeper than Y/n was ready for. She felt her throat tighten but shoved the emotion down like second nature. Mr. Soraoka leaned forward again, the lines in his face deepening—not from age, but from the weight of memory.

“You’re right, Y/n. You didn’t come here to be anyone’s role model. And maybe you think I’m making a mistake choosing you. But I didn’t choose you because I expected perfection.”

His gaze sharpened, eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her freeze.

“I chose you because I knew your father.”

Y/n’s lips parted, and this time she couldn’t hide the flicker of surprise that crossed her face.

“I watched Harukemi grow up at this very camp,” Mr. Soraoka continued, voice dropping to something close to reverence. “From the first time he stepped onto the ice, all knees and nerves, to the day he left with more confidence and kindness than most men twice his age. I knew him before he was your father. Before he met your mother. Before the world shaped him into who he became.”

Y/n’s throat tightened, but she remained still, unsure where this was going.

“I have things,” he said slowly, deliberately. “Items. Stories. Pieces of him that no one else alive knows about or has seen. Things that could help you understand the man he was… the kind of father he tried to be even when you weren’t looking.”

Her breath caught, lashes lowering slightly as if she could hide from the sheer weight of those words.

“But here’s the deal, Y/n. A gamble, if you will.” Mr. Soraoka stood now, walking around the desk until he was just a few steps in front of her. “Complete one full day. One. Be present, be part of this. At the end of that day… I’ll give you something that belonged to Harukemi. Something real. And I’ll tell you the story behind it.”

Y/n’s heart pounded.

“But if you walk away now,” he added, the finality in his tone razor sharp, “then you’ll walk away from all of it. No second chances. No pleading, no begging, no matter how much you want to know. The door will close.”

Silence stretched between them like the hush before a winter storm.

“You choose, Y/n. Stay… and learn something that only I can give you. Or leave… and carry that emptiness forever.”

For a long moment, Y/n didn’t speak. Her eyes, which usually carried the weight of indifference and veiled frustration, shimmered with something unfamiliar—something raw. The crack in her armor was small, but undeniable. Her fingers moved slowly, as if unsure of themselves, until they gently wrapped around Mr. Soraoka’s weathered hand. The contact was soft, tentative, but sincere. Her thumb brushed against a callus near his knuckle, and her voice came out quieter than even she expected.

“What do I need to do first?”

Mr. Soraoka blinked, surprised—almost taken aback by the sudden shift in the girl who’d spent every second resisting connection like it was poison. But his surprise melted into something warmer, something deeply paternal. He smiled—no, beamed—and with his other hand, he gave her knuckles the gentlest rub, like how a father might comfort a child afraid of falling again.

“The first day is the easiest,” he said gently. “Today’s just about getting to know the other staff. Mingle, talk, let people see you. Let yourself… be seen.”

Y/n swallowed hard, trying to process the flood of unfamiliar emotions that stirred in her chest.

“You’ll be spending the next sixty-eight days with these people,” he continued. “You don’t have to make best friends, not today. But I want you to try. And even if it takes a minute—or a few—just keep trying. That’s all I ask.”

His words sat with her like a small fire in the cold.

“If you make it through the day,” he added, giving her hand one final squeeze before letting go, “come to my office tomorrow morning. I’ll be waiting—and I’ll bring something of Harukemi’s with me. A story worth hearing.”

Y/n nodded once, the motion stiff but full of intent.

As she stepped back, her chest felt tighter—but not in the suffocating way it usually did. This was different. Something was pulling her forward now, however fragile the thread might be.And for the first time in a long time, she whispered inside her own head: Okay. Just try.

The first staff mixer of the day had quickly devolved into a teeth-grinding cacophony of I love love! and camp is like, totally the best way to discover your true self! sentiments. Y/n sat cross-legged in the circle of counselors and volunteers, her hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands and her expression utterly unreadable—except for the eye twitch that had made a persistent home on her left side. If she heard one more sentence that ended in “because love is the answer,” she might actually commit a felony... well another felony.

Would Dad be disappointed if I just… didn’t see this through? she thought, rubbing the back of her neck with a groan only she could hear. Her spiral of internal sarcasm was interrupted by a voice that struck her as familiar and annoying all in one.

“Huh?” Y/n asked, blinking as her focus snapped back to reality.

The same girl from earlier—the one who had pitched a fit about Y/n being named a counselor—was smirking at her with forced sweetness. But the second Y/n’s bored, flat tone hit the air, the smirk dissolved like sugar in water.

“I asked you a question. Are you even paying attention?” the girl pouted, clearly hoping to provoke something that just wasn’t going to come.

Y/n blinked once, slowly, then rolled her eyes and said absolutely nothing. Not today. She wasn’t going to get baited into a scene—not when she had something to prove. Something real. This girl and her issues weren’t her problem. Then, like a spotlight cutting through stage fog, a voice rang out over the chatter:

“Yo, newbie!”

Every head turned at the sound of Gojo’s voice—loud, smooth, and dripping with charisma he didn’t even try to contain.

“Come here,” he called, waving his long arm in a wide arc like a kid summoning a lost puppy. “All of us counselors wanna bond with you!”

There was a grin plastered on his face like he knew something she didn’t. Which made Y/n’s stomach twist with suspicion. What the hell does this guy want? She wondered, closing her eyes and grinding her molars together for just a second before forcing herself to stand up.

She didn't say a word to the group she was leaving behind—especially not to the pouty girl who now looked even more irritated at Y/n’s lack of reaction. She walked Gojo, who stood alone by an old totem pole wrapped in sparkling fairy lights and delicate snowflake garlands. Everything in the camp so far has screamed whimsical winter vibes—everything but the six-foot-something man himself. The closer Y/n got, the more aware she became of how tall Gojo actually was. He wasn’t just tall—he was tall tall. And it wasn’t just his height. His presence practically buzzed in the air, if chaos could wear sunglasses and crack jokes, it would look just like him.

Gojo’s bright blue eyes—so eerily similar to the icy wonderland around them—met hers. He smiled like the two of them were old friends even though they’d barely shared two words.

“Man, you’re tiny,” he said with a faux-pity sigh, resting his elbow on top of her head like she was furniture. “You sure you’re not here for the junior skaters' camp?”

Y/n glared up at him, deadpan. He was annoyingly even more good-looking up close. With how close they were, Y/n realized that he had healed cuts and scrapes on his face. Some of them looked as if they were deep and painful when they were first formed, but it did nothing to falter his beauty. Feeling as though she had been staring at him for far too long to be normal, Y/n opened her mouth.

“Touch me again and I’ll snap your arm like a twig.”

Gojo laughed—hard. A rich, full laugh that turned a few heads. But instead of being offended, he looked delighted. Almost as if the reaction Y/n gave is exactly what he wanted.

“Oh, I like you,” he said, taking a step back and motioning her to follow. “C’mon. We’ve got a game going—‘Two Truths and a Lie: Counselor Edition.’ You better not be boring.”

Y/n sighed but followed anyway. She had a deal to keep. Sixty-eight days. One day at a time. And if she had to deal with Gojo’s walking chaos generator of a personality to get there... fuck it we ball.

Y/n followed Gojo through the corridors of the camp, feeling the sharp bite of cold air through the large windows that dotted the halls. The camp was built like a small village, with sprawling cabins and wooden walkways that led to cozy rooms hidden away from the bustling activity outside. Gojo hummed a catchy tune as they walked, clearly unbothered by the chilly atmosphere, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets. Y/n, for her part, felt a prickling sense of unease, but she didn’t let it show—her mind was already somewhere else, counting down the minutes until she could disappear back into the shadows.

After a few turns, Gojo stopped in front of what appeared to be a newer small building that had a red door. He pulled out a key chain from under his shirt and inserted the key into the door lock.

"Alright, welcome to our little slice of peace," Gojo announced as he pushed the door open wide. Y/n stepped through, her eyes immediately scanning the room.

It was small—cozy, even—with soft lighting and plush chairs. A fireplace crackled in the corner, and a table was cluttered with snacks, drinks, and half-opened board games. But what stood out most was the atmosphere: the room was intimate, and there was a quiet, relaxed air to it that Y/n wasn’t expecting. Only the six counselors were inside, lounging around like old friends, casual and easy in a way Y/n wasn’t used to seeing from adults. This wasn’t the bustling mess of the camp’s main hall; this was a special break room, the kind of place that only certain people had access to.

“Okay,” Gojo continued, his eyes scanning the room. “We’ve got short-pint here, which means it’s time to get to know each other better. Two Truths and a Lie—camp edition. Don’t worry, I’ll play nice this time and keep it PG.”

Y/n glanced around, trying to get a sense of who the others were. There was the tall, gruff teen from earlier—Nanami, the one who had looked through her like she was invisible. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his usual stern expression softened slightly, though Y/n could tell that he was still sizing her up. Then there was Suguru, the one with the quiet energy, sitting on the armrest of one of the chairs, chewing on something that looked like a granola bar. Shoko, the girl with sharp eyes and a cool demeanor, was sprawled out on the couch with her feet propped up on the cushion reading some magazine. Utahime, the more composed one with a delicate smile, was seated at the table, sketching away in a drawing book.

Gojo, ever the center of attention, leaned against the doorframe with that infuriatingly confident smile of his. He glanced over at Y/n jerking his head ever so slightly to encourage her to find a spot to sit. Y/n opted to sit in the bright red bean bag chair conveniently away from everyone else's seats.

“Alright, two truths and a lie: 1) I’ve been to five countries before I turned 10. 2) I can tie cherry stems in my mouth with nothing but my tongue. 3) I can do fifty pullups if not more in less than ten minutes.”

The others immediately started muttering among themselves, trying to guess which was the lie. Except for Suguru; who seemingly already knew the answer.

Y/n wasn’t interested in playing. Instead, she stood at the back of the group, arms crossed, watching them all interact. The banter was lighthearted, but it felt... forced to her, as if everyone was playing a role they were expected to fill. Her gaze flickered to Gojo, she was confused on why he seemed so adamant about the "bonding" game. It was clear they all knew each other so why do this?

Nanami, not one for games, didn’t waste any time. “The amount of countries is the lie; You've travelled to far more. You probably have been banned in a few of them.”

“Hey! I am always on my best behavior.... in foreign countries.” Gojo protested with a mock offended expression, puffing out his chest dramatically. “But you’re right— I think it was twenty seven? I don't really remember. That’s was my lie.”

“Alright, my turn,” Suguru said, sitting up. “1) I strategically complete 1000 brushes of my hair at night. 2) I used to collect rare insects. 3) I can hold my breath for over five minutes.”

“Man, I’d like to see that first one. Mr. Barbie,” Shoko teased with a smirk. “You definitely don’t strike me as flower, gleam, and glow type”

Suguru shrugged casually, clearly unfazed. “If you're ever stuck outside my tower, I would not let my hair down for you.”

They went around the circle, each counselor revealing little facts about themselves—some true, some not. Y/n couldn’t help but listen, though she wasn’t quite participating. The game remained lighthearted among all of the teens. Even Nanami participated.. When it was Y/n’s turn, Gojo raised his eyebrows, clearly expecting some kind of spectacular reveal.

“Well?” he prodded. “Your turn, short-pint.”

Y/n didn’t answer immediately; she only frowned in annoyance from the already aggravating nickname. She wasn't even short; he was just a fucking giant. She let the silence stretch, allowing the weight of her words to settle. What should she say? Be honest? Lie? With a glance at each of the counselors, she finally spoke, her voice casual but flat.

“Um.. Okay. 1) I have three tattoos. 2) I once did a backflip on ice in skates. 3) My nipples are pierced.”

A small choking noise came immediately from Nanami's mouth as he looked away from Y/n. Shoko and Utahime doubled over in laughter at the blush rising on the blonde's face. Suguru smirked slightly before nodding in approval while Gojo's eyes flickered down to her chest, but came back up as he felt the hard shove from Suguru on his side.

"What? I just wanted to confirm." Gojo shrugged, holding back a laugh

“I wonder which one could be the lie?” Utahime asked, cutting Gojo off between her giggles.

Y/n didn’t respond, instead letting the silence drag on. There was something satisfying about making them work for her attention. Nanami let out a quiet sigh, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater as he finally looked back at Y/n. “The lie is the piercings” he stated firmly.

“Aw... boo... I had mad respect for you” Shoko pouted, tossing a piece of popcorn into her mouth without missing a beat.

Gojo laughed, “I think you just wanted to see them, Shoko."

“Like you weren't staring. ” Suguru teased with a small smile, to which Gojo gasped and elbowed his friend playfully.

“Now that,” Gojo said, “was for research nothing more.”

Y/n rolled her eyes. “You both are exhausting. But yes that is the lie. ”

Gojo placed a hand over his heart. “What are you saying fuck me for? What did I do?”

Despite herself, a small chuckle escaped her lips. Just barely. It died quickly, but it had happened, and unfortunately for her, they all noticed.

“So,” Utahime said with a curious smile, “you really have tattoos? But you're so young though”

Y/n shrugged and leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms. “Not that young; I'm 17.”

“Definitely the youngest here. You're the baby now” Shoko said. “Utahime is the oldest so she'll take good care of you.”

Gojo tilted his head, watching her a little more closely now. “You're 17? Jeez, I feel old now. I almost 19.”

“You are only a year and some change older than me; relax buddy. Y/n replied, tapping her foot against the wooden floor lazily. "I'll be 18 soon anyways."

There was a brief silence, one that was more curious than awkward. It felt like—for the first time—Y/n wasn’t a ghost hovering on the edge of the group. She’d slipped into the fold without fully meaning to. She wasn't sure how to feel about these people as of yet, but it was clear that she was going to be around them often so being cordial was the best option.

“You’re an interesting one,” Gojo said, looking Y/n up and down with an unreadable expression. “We are gonna have so much fun together.”

“Is that so?” Y/n replied; despite her dry tone, she had the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on her lips.

Utahime stood and clapped her hands together. “Alright, enough bonding for now. Let’s get ready for dinner prep before people start trying to eat each other.”

Everyone slowly began to rise, stretching and finishing their snacks. As they filtered out of the room, Gojo lingered behind, giving Y/n a glance as he pulled open the door.

“You’re better at this than you think,” he said casually.

“I’m not trying,” Y/n replied, blinking owlishly at the man.

Gojo grinned, showing off that award-winning smile again. “Exactly.”

The mess hall had transformed. What once looked like a basic communal dining area was now buzzing with preparation and purpose. Lights dimmed just slightly, casting a warm hue across the wood-paneled walls. The long dining tables had been cleaned, lined with simple but elegant tablecloths, and set with actual cutlery—none of the flimsy plastic Y/n was expecting. She stood near the entrance, watching the chaos unfold like an outsider at a stage production. Everyone had slipped seamlessly into their roles, as if this dance had been rehearsed a thousand times.

Utahime was in full organizer mode, her brow furrowed in concentration as she hung subtle winter-themed garlands near the windows and placed small battery-operated candles at the center of each table. Her movements were quick, efficient, and entirely focused. Geto was at the far end of the hall, bent over the sound system tucked into a wooden corner shelf. Soft instrumental music floated from the speakers, nothing overpowering, just ambiance. He adjusted the volume, then turned to angle the small spotlight in a way that wouldn’t blind anyone but would still keep the area well-lit. He nodded to himself, clearly satisfied.

Near the kitchen entrance, Shoko stood over a series of prepared plates, moving with practiced ease. She wore an apron—probably stolen from a cartoon character’s wardrobe—that said “Too Tired to Function,” and yet she looked perfectly at ease as she added garnishes to the steaming dishes, inspecting each one before sliding it down to the next station. Gojo, unsurprisingly, had the least structured role, and yet somehow the most chaotic. He flitted between the stove and the prep counter, grabbing a small container of chili flakes to add a final kick to one of the trays of roasted vegetables. His sleeves were rolled up, and there was flour on the side of his cheek like some weird war paint. He whistled while he worked, completely in his own world.

Then there was Nanami. Clipboard in hand, glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, he looked like the most intimidating camp counselor anyone had ever seen—but damn if things weren’t running smoothly under his watch. He kept a close eye on the clock and called out time checks every so often, reminding people of deadlines with all the grace of a seasoned drill sergeant.

Y/n swallowed hard. How the hell did they do this every day? It wasn’t just the physical labor—it was the energy, the care, the constant alertness to everyone else’s needs. She felt like her chest was tightening just watching it. It was too much. No one had ever expected her to take care of anyone else. Hell, half the time she forgot to eat herself. And now here she was, in a room full of people that made this look easy. She didn’t realize how long she’d been standing frozen near the door until she heard someone call her name.

“Y/n!” Shoko’s voice rang out, sharp but not unkind. The older girl glanced up from the stack of plates she was organizing and gave a slight nod toward the drink pitchers on the side cart. “Can you help pour drinks and set them out on the tables outside?”

Y/n blinked. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”

She moved toward the cart, grabbing a few empty glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. Her hands weren’t exactly steady, but she focused on not spilling anything. That was manageable, right? Just pour drinks. Carry them outside. Don’t trip. Don’t overthink it. As she stepped outside, the cool air hit her skin, a small comfort to balance out the buzzing anxiety in her chest. She walked between the tables, setting down the drinks carefully, letting the music and the warmth inside trail behind her like a distant hum. The scent of warm food and crisp winter air blended together as everyone finally took their seats at the long outdoor table, the sky now cloaked in hues of navy and deep violet. String lights overhead blinked softly like distant stars, casting a golden glow over everyone’s faces. Laughter was easy, and for a brief moment, the stress of preparation melted away into the steam rising from their plates.

Y/n sat toward the end of the table, a plate of food in front of her she hadn’t quite touched yet. Her eyes drifted from person to person, watching the way they filled the space around her—Utahime smiling politely between bites, Suguru teasing Gojo for putting too much heat on the vegetables, Shoko sipping from a mug that probably had more than hot chocolate in it, and Nanami chewing quietly but listening to every word. It was… weird. The ease of it all.

“Man, I can’t wait for the kids to get here,” Gojo said with a bright grin, his voice rising above the low murmur of conversation. “That’s when things really start. Chaos, excitement, and endless requests for extra dessert—what’s not to love?”

“They really are the heart of the camp,” Utahime added, folding her napkin neatly into her lap. “Some of them look forward to this all year.”

“Even the ones who pretend they hate it,” Shoko chimed in, arching a brow in Y/n’s direction.

Y/n blinked, caught off guard. She gave a noncommittal shrug and picked at a piece of bread on her plate.

Suguru leaned back in his chair. “You’ll see. First-timers are always a little overwhelmed, but when the kids get here… things shift.”

“I’m not really a kid person,” Y/n muttered under her breath, but no one seemed to hear her. Or maybe they just chose not to.

Nanami finally set down his fork, brushing his fingers with a napkin before clearing his throat in that quiet, no-nonsense way of his.

“Speaking of which,” he said, glancing at Y/n. “You’ll need to be tested before the week ends.”

Y/n’s gaze snapped toward him, her brows furrowing. “Tested?”

“Ice skating,” he said plainly. “You’re set to be one of the instructors this year. It’s one of the more popular activities, and we can’t have someone teaching if they don’t know the basics. Safety and skill go hand-in-hand.”

Y/n nearly choked on her water. “You want me to teach a bunch of kids how to ice skate?”

Nanami’s expression didn’t change. “It’s part of your counselor assignment.”

“Do you even know if I can skate?”

“That’s why you’re being tested.”

Gojo leaned in from across the table, grinning like a troublemaker with a front-row seat to the drama. “C’mon, it'll be fun. Worst case scenario, you fall on your ass, and we all laugh before taking to our best nurse, Shoko.”

"Nurse in training." Shoko correct, “But he's right. The best-case scenario though, is you impress us all and become the camp’s unexpected prodigy.”

Y/n stared down at her plate, lips pressing into a tight line. Why did it feel like everyone here was always ten steps ahead of her? Like they knew exactly where she was supposed to fit in, even when she didn’t? She didn’t answer—not right away, at least. But something about the way they were talking… they weren’t mocking her. Not really. They were including her, in the same breath they teased and pushed. Like she was already expected to rise to the occasion. God, her dad really had to be some kind of saint if this was the kind of world he belonged to.

Y/n finally picked up her fork and stabbed a carrot. “Fine. But if I break something, I’m haunting all of you.”

Gojo raised his cup like a toast. “Deal.”

After dinner, the warm, comforting chatter in the mess hall slowly gave way to the clatter of dishes being cleared and chairs scraping against the wooden floors. Everyone moved with purpose, each counselor seamlessly falling into their roles—Gojo cracking jokes while rinsing plates, Utahime stacking chairs with practiced grace, Nanami double-checking everyone’s assigned tasks, and Shoko wiping down tables in calm, efficient motions. Even Suguru, quiet as ever, was collecting the leftover decorations with a lazy rhythm.

Y/n did her part without complaint, but her hands were clumsy. Her thoughts spun in circles, spiraling fast. You’ll be tested… to see if you're fit to teach the kids how to skate. Nanami had said it so casually during dinner, but the words hadn’t stopped replaying in her head since. Skating. Teaching skating. Her stomach was twisted in a series of tight, painful knots—more like cramps now. She hadn’t skated in years. Not seriously, anyway. Not since... well, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they expected her to be responsible for actual children. Children who would look to her for guidance and trust her to keep them safe on the ice.

God. She could barely take care of herself.

Once the mess hall was back in order, Nanami dismissed them for personal wind-down time. “Two hours. Be where you need to be.”

Y/n wasted no time slipping out. The cold air hit her like a slap the moment she stepped outside, but she welcomed it. The quiet of the night was a relief compared to the buzz in her head. By the time she reached her private cabin—one of the perks of being a counselor—she was moving on autopilot. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper of her jacket, and her eyes drifted toward the bed where her old skates hung loosely from the post. Mocking her. Daring her. She stared at them for what felt like an eternity before moving. Fifteen minutes later, she was slipping out the back of the cabin dressed in clothes she definitely hadn’t packed with skating in mind: form-fitting black flare leggings, a pastel pink tank top she hadn’t worn in months, and her zip-up hoodie drawn tightly.

The path to the rink was lit by soft, overhead bulbs strung between the trees like fairy lights, but her focus was razor sharp. When she finally found the main door to the rink, it was locked. That didn’t stop her. Locks were more like suggestions to someone with her history. She crouched down, worked quickly, and with a satisfying click, the door creaked open. She stepped inside, pulling it shut quietly behind her. The rink stretched out in front of her, vast and untouched under the dim lights. The stillness made her heart race. Her breath puffed out in soft clouds as she stepped toward the edge and slipped off her hoodie, folding it neatly by the boards. Now exposed to the cold, she felt everything sharper—each sound, each memory that the ice awakened beneath her skin.

She laced up her skates with shaking hands, trying to ignore the swell of bittersweet feeling pressing against her ribcage. The last time she skated… it had felt like freedom. Now it felt like pressure. Like expectation. With a slow inhale, she stood. The first step onto the ice nearly sent her sprawling. She caught herself against the boards with a curse and a wince. The cold was biting through her clothes and into her bones now, but she didn’t stop. She pushed forward, unsteady, her legs unsure, and her balance off. She fell. Hard. The second time, it hurt less. The third time, she didn’t fall; she began to remember.

It wasn’t graceful. Her movements were stiff, her knees too locked, her posture too guarded—but there was something there. Muscle memory kicking in. Every pass across the rink got a little smoother. Every fall hurt a little less. She kept going. Again and again.

By the time she glided toward the center of the ice without stumbling, her breath was heaving and her body was shaking—but not from the cold. It was something else. Something raw and strange. She closed her eyes. The ice was silent beneath her. Her father had skated here. Maybe even stood right here.

If you make it through all the activities today, I’ll give you an item that belonged to Harukemi and tell you the story surrounding it. Her fingers curled at her sides. There were things she needed to know. Y/n opened her eyes and took a deep, measured breath. She wasn’t ready for kids. She wasn’t ready to be seen, not really. But maybe she could try. If she kept falling, she’d just have to keep getting up. One skate pushed forward, then the other.

Gojo hadn’t meant to follow her. Honestly, he was just heading back from dropping off a crate of leftover pantry goods when he saw movement by the rink’s side building. The soft sound of the front door creaking open caught his attention. It wasn’t supposed to be open. Not this late. Not when everything was shut down. Curiosity piqued, he slipped into the shadows. He found himself leaning against the outer wall of the rink, tucked just far enough in the darkness to go unnoticed. Through the high glass windows, he saw her. Y/n.

At first, she was just a bundled shape by the boards, sitting still, head low, lacing up skates. He almost turned away—figured maybe she needed the ice to think, and honestly, everyone at this camp had their thing. But then she stood. And fell. Gojo winced a little, covering his mouth as a quiet laugh slipped out. It wasn’t mocking—there was something oddly endearing about it. The girl who stared everyone down with that deadpan glare was out here looking like a newborn deer on ice. She pushed herself back up, brushed frost from her leggings, and tried again. And again.

Each fall brought another smirk tugging at Gojo’s lips, an itch in his fingers to step out and help her up, make a dumb joke, pull her in close and show her how it’s done. But something about the way she gritted her teeth, how she refused to give up, made him hold back. She didn’t need saving. So he stayed there, in the dark. Then something happened. Without warning—like flipping a switch—her body began to remember. Her skates stopped scraping clumsily against the ice. Her posture straightened, her movements shifted. The unsure fumbling turned to gliding, then to spinning, then to soaring. Her arms flowed out at her sides, chest lifted, eyes half-closed like she was listening to music no one else could hear.

Gojo squinted; he had to be seeing incorrectly.

He reached up and pulled his prescription glasses from his head and slipped them onto his face. The world sharpened instantly, and his breath caught in his throat. Wow. That was all he could think. Y/n—this messy, sharp-tongued, dry-humored girl who barely spoke in full sentences—was glowing. Not just metaphorically. It was like something deep inside her had been ignited. Her usual dull aura, that heavy fog she dragged behind her like a second skin, was gone. In its place was something radiant. Beautiful. Light that didn’t just shine—it danced. It reached out and touched everything around her, rippling across the ice like sunbeams caught in snow.

She skated like she belonged to the air itself.

Her hair was freed from the makeshift hair tie she had and bounced with every move she made, arms cutting clean lines through the frosted night, her tank top clinging to her in soft pastel hues that contrasted the raw power of her movement. There was elegance there, but also pain. Precision and chaos, perfectly blended. Every turn of her skate, every breath she took—it was art. And Gojo couldn’t look away. His fingers curled slightly against the wooden paneling he leaned on. His heart didn’t race—he wouldn’t even call it that—but something in his chest shifted. Twitched. Pulled.

He didn’t understand it, not yet. But something about her—this girl who barely spoke, who looked at the world like it had already disappointed her beyond repair—was beginning to unravel a knot inside of him he didn’t know existed. She looked free and he wanted that freedom desperately. Her movements were strategically calculated like his were. She moved on her own accord and still managed to look graceful. He needed to feel that free at least once in his life; especially before his parents do anymore damage.

❄ Author's Note: I know this is long... probably the longest thing I have ever written. It started off as a drabble, but I got carried away. I plan to post part two sometime this week, but I really really am proud of it. I have always been a sucker for cheesy high school romcoms and decided that Gojo didn't belong in Shonen but a Shoujo so I am making it happen my damn-self. I plan for this to be finished in eight parts and have five major plot points to meet, and then random little scenarios that I have thought were cute and needed to see. This is a Gojo-centered fic, so no other love interests will be an option, but more characters will be mentioned, and Y/n will interact with everyone individually. I can answer any questions in the comments! Thank you to all who read the entire thing! You guys mean the world to me

[arr0s]

She's been awake for hours; being one of the qualified few who were able to protect the rest of the encampment if they were to be ambushed. She was pretty sure most if not of the witcher's were stretching themselves thin to protect of what remained of Iskaldrik. Hungrily she bit down into one of rapidly going bad - stale breads that they passed around at dinner last night. Opting for something with minimal staleness and she barely had to pick off any mould off this one. Eyes flickering up to take a quick look at the people sitting at the table, a couple folks were shushing their tired children, others slumped into seats taking a quick nap, faces hidden in their arms. She was nearly jumped when her eyes met someone elses. Quickly swallowing the rough bread and wiping flakes off the corner of her mouth. She couldn't remember his name. But, she's seen him around the makeshift encampment helping the refugee's like the rest of them have been. The smile she offered barely tugged at the corner of her mouth. "It certainly is a lot colder up here - we should be thankful that the weather has been more docile the last few days." Although it was still impossible to hunt - their rations were getting lower and lower with each passing day. If they couldn't find some sort of food that hasn't been tainted, she didn't think even half of them would survive the journey. Normally she didn't take to small talk, but any conversation was better than going over everything that happened and thinking of all the ways she fucked up. Tons of people in far better conditions have started their trek - folks who thought they didn't need the protection of a larger group. She was curious as to why he didn't leave with them; he looked to be in far better condition than even some of the Witcher's. "why are you still here?" The question came out bluntly, her gaze falling to her stale bread - picking off the flaking skin and letting it crumble into the pads of her finger.

Location: Nornwatch Tower.

Time: Morning.

Situation: Troupe 1 - Refugees.

The old metal armor, darkened and matted by time, was starting to feel heavy - not because of the weight it carried physically, but the psychological one that turned him into a wall of protection to the refugees he accompanied. Were him to travel alone as he always did, he'd already have reached Lysara at this point, however, what was left of light inside of him ordered him to help those in need, even though he could feel the darkness slowly but surely taking over his mind. The beast inside of him growled and howled, hidden but ever-present, thus announcing the monthly notice of the necessity that corrupted his soul - the urge to taste blood slowly becoming unbearable.

Deep in thoughts, it was only when someone sat at his table that all surrounding noise came back to him. As his gaze sliced through the room, no other empty seats, women, children, the elder, that hall filled to the brim with refugees from the war that had come to Iskaldrik. "Easy prey... Delicious innocent flesh... Eat... Consume... DEVOUR..." The deep growl filled his mind once again, and as to shake those thoughts away, a sigh. "I wonder how long until we're ready to resume this journey..." He muttered to himself, although it could be seen as a question to the other person in front of him. His gaze finally fixed on that person. "I think I'll never get used to the weather on these parts..."

[stellabyystarlight]

happiest and most triangful birthday to the trianglest triangle boy 🫶📐(haha i said triangle 3 times)

[spidersinyourshoes]

DIVA

the original diva:

[shouts-into-the-void]

New character concepts!

The royal gardener with an obvious crush on the eldest prince; he lives in a small shelter in the palace gardens and sends most of his pay to his elderly mother. He gets along with pretty much everyone, which means he can call in loads of odd favors whenever the story calls for it.

The prince's younger brother, who goes out of his way to discourage the gardener's crush which has absolutely nothing to do with the gardener being cute and kind and witty and; while widely know for his combat prowess and thought to be the most likely heir to the throne, is actually really bad with people and prefers the company of books

The eldest prince, who's basically what would happen if you cross-bred a golden retriever boy with a himbo. Nice guy, sadly for the gardener he's way more into a gorgeous lady night who won't give him the time of day. Has no real interest in being king and nobody honestly expects him to be named heir despite being the oldest

Said gorgeous lady night; has worked her way to her position with blood, sweat, and tears, and is an absolute badass. Secretly kind of likes the very sweet prince who is constantly trying to woo her, but harbors a sore spot towards the royals

The princes' middle sister, an intelligent and pragmatic woman who actually does have an interest in the throne and is the only sibling qualified to handle the responsibility, really. She makes a notable effort to speak with the servants and common people in order to get their expertise on potential improvements when she takes over. Befriends the gardener this way, and constantly jokes about getting him to help her with the issue of producing an heir as she has a notable disinterest in romantic partners.

The youngest princess, a lot like her oldest brother in that she's super sweet and everyone likes her. Not really relevant to the story other than the fact that she has a devastating crush on literally every maid in the palace.

The queen, sometimes referred to as "the mad queen" in hushed whispers, she's a slightly off-putting woman with a distant stare and a tendency to mutter about odd things. In reality she's a powerful seer with unfortunate Cassandra syndrome. The only one to ever actually listen to or believe her is her husband. Loves her children fiercely, and wishes they wouldn't worry after her so much.

The king, an imposing man who is really just a wife guy in disguise. Takes the queen's input very seriously, and fully intends to name his eldest daughter heir to the throne. Really does just want his family and the nation's happiness, he's just spent so long having to seem threatening and powerful that his reputation overrides his good intentions.

The gardener's mother, another character who isn't super relevant to the main story, but who shows up whenever something goes wrong at the palace to make sure her son is okay.

[arr0s]

Where: Y'know just walkin' in da snow Who: @freydis-freydat

It was so cold. At the beginning of their journey - Arros and the rest of the makeshift troupe all that the sweet rush of adrenaline when they escaped the cave system. High on survival and hope they hardly felt the bite. But now, as the night went on and they trudged through the soft untouched snow. It was beautiful in a way, the Witcher enjoyed watching the flakes fall and landing in sparkling waves along the horizon. She fell back behind the herd, bringing up the rear in case any sort of goblin or whatever tried to get the upper hand on them, or at least that's what she told them when she agreed to be last in the convoy. Really, she wanted to take her time; breathe in this strange freedom. No oath, no training, no fighting. Just the calmness of the night and the soft breath circling around them. Her gaze fell from the sky, landing on the shield maiden walking ahead, the only one who really spoke to her (other than the princess) everyone else seemed to have predetermined ideas on Witchers. And who could blame them? Quickening her steps just enough to fall into a stride beside Freydis, she cleared her throat to make herself known, also in an attempt not to jump scare her again. "How are you holding up?" She wasn't used to the small talk, Witchers more or less had their own agenda and she really didn't bother others who had nothing to do with her business. But she was trying, if it came out a little awkward. "I wanted to uh, thank you. For earlier."

[arr0s]

Watching Torsen work from where she stood on the other side of the butchers table. Her eyes following the blade to the unnatural taint of the purple marks were bright against the ridges of flesh. This wasn't some mould on bread that you could scrape away. This went through the whole animal. It felt as though the group of refugees were fighting a losing battle. If the enemy didn't kill them, then starvation and the cold certainly would. They had only just returned with this catch - the area surrounding was seemingly barren, like most of the animals had started to flee the same as them.

A sigh escaped her lips as she looked up to meet determined eyes. "I'll join you, but I don't think we'll have much luck." But, anything was better than sticking around the hungry and irritable survivors. Picking up her bow and slinging it over her shoulder - there was a lot of weight on the Witcher's shoulders, not just Torsten who happened to be part of the kings guard, but a lot of the civilians they had huddled in their makeshift encampment. Not many folks knew how to hunt or fend for themselves, naturally their survival instincts would turn to those such as the witchers for some guidance. Arros wasn't one to guide - yet responsibility kept being thrust upon her. For Torsten it seemed to suite him. He took the leadership role naturally

Nodding her head towards the door as though gesturing, "here's hoping we have a nice fat untainted deer waiting for us." It was said to be a joke but her voice neither rose nor fell with any sort of cadence; it was an attempt at least.

@arr0s location: Nornwatch Keep notes: starter for the witcher witchers

( tw: butchery )

Hide parted from flesh and musculature, the sinew severed, Torsten's knife remained fixed into the surface of the table as his gloved fingers wrenched at the thick layer of fascia and fur. The felled boar had taken most of the morning to hunt, this barren wasteland held little in the ways of game, and with every passing day the refugees grew hungrier. In a fortnight the Legion's grainstores would deplete completely, and there's be no provisions left for the people sheltering at the edge of this battered world. Blight had sunk into the earth beneath their feet, and as Torsten wrenched back the hide of the seemingly healthy beast, the deep, purple marks of the taint were glaringly obvious. Foul, poisonous meat.

"Fuck!" Torsten cursed as the hefty beast was hauled from the table, "Half a day wasted hunting for another morsel of this blight." His lip curled before he managed to take a steadying sigh, wrenching his knife from the table before running the length of it with a rag to sheath a clean blade. The First had not made it out of Iskaldrik, the High King was still ill and wreathed in madness - the witchers had no direction but what they could decide among their own, and the direction that Ormir had given them. No oaths of fealty bound them to obey anyone, but in this time of doubt, Torsten resigned himself to his belief in their path and the promise to protect the best interests of Iskaldrik and the royal family. However that personal vow may appear.

Torsten didn't need to explain the direness of the situation to Arros, the temptation of putrid, foul meat and stores would soon become more promising than once more sleeping on an empty stomach. Children. Infants. Sick and more. "I'm going to look for any signs of anything else we can hunt, will you join me?"

[rottedlilacs]

HEAR ME OUTTT jinx and ekko spiderverse AU

“in every other universe gwen stacy falls for spider-man - and in every other universe, it doesn’t end well”

is that not them question mark 🙄

[vintagetvstars]

Fred Rogers Vs. Bobby Troup

Propaganda

Fred Rogers - (Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood) - Okay he may not have been Hot per se, but you know that man would take better care of you than anyone else on planet Earth. And that's hot af.

Bobby Troup - (Emergency!) - No text propaganda

Master Poll List | How to submit propaganda | What is vintage? (FAQ)

Additional propaganda below the cut

Bobby Troup:

Some cute photos of him with his Wife Julie London who starred in Emergency! alongside him

Not only was he an actor but he was also a composer, vocalist, and pianist and famously wrote the rhythm and blues standard Route 66

[followtherouxls]

I refuse to let Kortopi win just cause he has long hair and a smaller stature and whatever

Also ignore how I misspelt Bonolenov I can't change it now 💔💔💔

[neptunesailing]

a little thing i did for promoting the @escookbook zine on the twinstars troupe's enstars fandub! go check both of them out!

+ a little bonus :]