The city was quiet beneath a thick blanket of snow, each flake glinting like shattered glass in the pale morning sun. Sapporo's streets, usually alive with chatter and the hum of cars, seemed suspended in time, as though the winter itself had pressed pause on the world. From her bedroom window, Ichika Komori watched the flakes drift down, settling softly on the slate rooftops and evergreens that lined the avenues.
Her home was a sprawling, modern mansion in a quiet neighborhood, the kind that gleamed even in the soft gray of winter. Marble floors reflected the pale light, and the air carried a faint scent of fresh flowers her mother, Ikumi Komori, always insisted on keeping. Ichika stood there for a long moment, her gloved hands pressed to the glass, her breath fogging the pane. Even in such beauty, there was a chill she couldn't shake—not just the winter biting at the city, but a subtle sense of longing she didn't quite understand.
Ikumi's voice floated from the other room, soft yet commanding.
"Ichika, breakfast is ready. Don't make me wait, dear."
"Coming!" Ichika replied, smoothing the hem of her school uniform. She turned from the window, glancing at the framed photos on her dresser—snapshots of her family smiling during warmer months, the sun painting their faces gold. Her father, ever composed, stood behind her mother, whose laughter was rare but infectious. And then there were her friends: Misuzu Kanzaki and Kiyomi Mizuhara, her constants through the seasons, their friendship a tether to the ordinary world beyond the pristine confines of her home.
The aroma of toasted bread and miso soup greeted her as she entered the dining room. Sunlight filtered through frosted windows, casting long, lazy shadows across the polished table. Ichika's father sipped his coffee in silence, while Ikumi fussed over the plates. Misuzu and Kiyomi were already seated, their cheeks flushed from the cold morning air.
"Snow looks heavy today," Kiyomi Mizuhara said, poking at her eggs with a chopstick. "Do you think our cars will slide on the roads?"
"Probably," Ichika replied, her voice soft but measured. She took a bite, thinking of how the snow seemed to divide the city. From her vantage point, life outside her neighborhood felt distant, almost like a different world. The warmth of her home, the laughter of her friends, and the routine of school—these were her constants, her safe boundaries.
Meanwhile, in a narrow alley not far from downtown, another figure moved through the snow with ease, almost invisible against the dim gray of the morning. Rikuu Arakawa's coat was worn, patched in several places, and his boots left uneven tracks on the icy pavement. He moved with careful attention, eyes scanning each corner, each shadow. His world was different—gritty, raw, and demanding constant vigilance. Unlike Ichika, he didn't linger over hot breakfasts or contemplate the elegance of frost on a windowpane. Survival was immediate, physical, and often painful.
Rikuu paused at the edge of the alley, adjusting the scarf around his neck. His grandmother, Fumiko Arakawa, waiting at their modest apartment, would scold him if he lingered too long, but the streets offered something else: small jobs, small fights, a fleeting sense of control. He didn't like the cold, didn't like the snow—it made the city slippery and dangerous—but it also carried a strange clarity, a way to see the world stripped of its distractions.
Back in her home, Ichika's day began in a flurry of routines. She dressed meticulously, brushing her short, pink hair until it fell neatly around her face. Misuzu Kanzaki and Kiyomi Mizuhara chattered endlessly about weekend plans and minor school scandals, their voices bright and insistent. Ichika nodded and smiled, though her mind wandered to the world beyond these walls.
She had a life of certainty: good grades, a loving family, friends she could rely on. Yet beneath it all, she felt the subtle tug of curiosity, the faint longing for something untamed, something unpolished—the kind of life she could never glimpse from her gilded window.
At the same time, Rikuu's morning was already marked by struggle. He met his best friend near the corner of a busy intersection, a boy named Masayoshi Fujikawa, who was slightly taller, leaner, and equally accustomed to skirting danger. Together, they planned small schemes—not criminal, not dangerous beyond repair, just enough to keep the lights on and food on the table. For Rikuu, these mornings were ordinary; for Ichika, they were unimaginable.
Even as the city slept under its wintry veil, their lives, so different, traced paths that would one day converge. Ichika's footsteps echoed in marble halls, deliberate and careful. Rikuu's boots crunched against ice, quick and precise. One world glimmered in warmth and order, the other in grit and unpredictability. Both, however, were poised on the edge of change.
The sun rose higher, though its light was pale against the snow-laden skyline. Ichika and her friends stepped into their luxurious cars, the engines purring softly against the quiet morning, and headed toward school. Meanwhile, Rikuu ducked into a side street, the day's first task already claiming his attention. Neither knew of the other yet, but in the hush of Sapporo's winter, the city itself seemed to whisper of the meeting to come—of lives that would intertwine like tracks in the fresh snow.
And somewhere, between frost and shadow, warmth and struggle, the winter that burned began its slow, inevitable approach.