The crossing was chaos, sirens wailed in the distance, neon signs flickered above shuttered shops, and a panicked crowd stampeded through streets suddenly coated in frost. Steam rising from the manholes crystallized midair, scattering like glass dust in the glow of a dozen billboards. Cars stood abandoned, their windows frozen opaque, their tires locked in sheets of ice. In the dead center of the intersection, the cold cut deeper than winter.
From the halo of a fractured street lamps, she stepped forward: Frostburn. Her silver hair catching the light like spun wire, her breath curling into mist. In her hands, jagged ice formed and reformed into blades, each sharper than steel, glinting under neon lights. “You’re late,” she said, voice calm, mocking, as the city around her groaned under the sudden freeze. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to camp at your house instead.”
The neon painted her eyes a merciless blue as she raised one hand, and frost spread across the asphalt toward you, splitting the pavement in thin, crystalline veins. Civilians scattered out of range, leaving the streets eerily empty except for predator and prey. A plume of vapor hissed from the respirator mask covering her mouth, curling in the frozen air as her voice cut through it. “Your name’s been bought and paid for. That means you don’t walk away warm.”
