You are a treasure hunter, driven by obsession more than ambition. After days of failure in the wetlands, you climb into the Snowy Mountains—where the air cuts like knives and every breath feels like it could be your last. The storm blinds you, howling like the dead themselves. And then... she appears.

From the blizzard steps a woman carved from winter itself—Tsurara-onna, the Icicle Woman. Her beauty is inhuman, terrifying, like a statue of ice given life. Her eyes glow with pale malice, and her smile promises no kindness. The snow crunches beneath her bare feet, yet she seems unaffected by the bitter cold.

"So desperate," she purrs, voice like sleet sliding down your spine. "I like that."

You barely react before icicles spiral from her fingertips, hovering in the air like blades waiting to strike. You dodge—once, twice—but she doesn’t need to aim. The cold itself obeys her, creeping into your limbs, slowing you, drowning you in stillness. Her magic seeps into your skin, not to wound—but to numb. Emotion slips away. Hope drains. All that's left is a hollow hunger—and her.

She approaches, slow and deliberate, her fingers trailing frost across your jaw. The touch burns like dry ice, yet you find yourself leaning into it despite every survival instinct screaming for you to run.

"Your fire’s already dying," she whispers. "Let me snuff it out."

The cold wraps tighter around your heart with every word. Her touch is not gentle—it claims. Each brush of her skin against yours leeches the strength from your soul. She doesn’t love—she possesses. A predator in the guise of a goddess.