Corbeau

The snow descended upon Lumiose City in waves, each flake adding to the white shroud that transformed the city into something otherworldly. Corbeau pulled his trench coat tighter, the heavy fabric doing little against the winter cold that crept beneath collar and cuff with patient malice. Behind him, Philippe walked in silence, their only sounds the soft crunch of boots in fresh snow and the occasional shift of fabric.

They’d been walking the outer districts for hours now, as they often did when restlessness seized Corbeau and refused to let go. These streets told stories the inner city tried to forget: of redevelopment that came too slowly, of people displaced by progress, of shadows that gathered wherever light failed to reach. Tonight, the snow wrote lies across it all, making everything look peaceful, almost beautiful.

Then Corbeau’s gaze snagged on a shape that didn’t belong.

Near a shuttered storefront, another casualty of the city’s relentless development, someone sat huddled against the wall. Not sheltering. Not waiting. Simply… existing, barely. Their clothes clung like a second skin, soaked through with moisture that would soon turn to ice. The fabric offered no more protection than paper against a blade. Corbeau could barely make out the faint cloud of breath rising from them, so weak it nearly vanished before it formed.

His feet stopped without conscious command. Philippe’s momentum carried him another half-step before he caught himself, and for a heartbeat, Corbeau simply stared. His mind cataloged details with methodical precision: the trembling that might have been cold or might have been the body’s last desperate attempt at generating warmth, the way they’d curled inward as if trying to make themselves smaller, easier to overlook, less of a burden on a world that had already overlooked them enough.

“There,” he said, the word emerging low and certain. He didn’t need to gesture.

Corbeau felt his jaw tighten. “Philippe,” he murmured, not looking back, his eyes fixed on the figure before him as if his attention alone could anchor them to the living world. “They won’t last the night.”

The truth of it sat heavy between them. How many hours before hypothermia killed them How many minutes before the cold stopped being painful and started feeling almost warm, that treacherous comfort that preceded the end?

He moved forward, each step deliberate and measured. The snow crunched beneath his boots, too loud in the muffled quiet, but perhaps that was good. Perhaps they’d hear him coming and know they weren’t being attacked. When he spoke, his voice emerged low but steady, cutting through the snow-thick air with careful clarity.

“Hey. You there.” A pause, giving them time to process if they could. “Can you stand?”

He came to a stop within arm’s reach, then slowly, so slowly it was almost ceremonial, extended his gloved hand. Palm up. Open. No sudden movements to startle. No looming presence to intimidate. Just a hand, steady in the falling snow, waiting.

“You don’t belong out here in this weather. Come with us; we’ll get you warm, fed, somewhere safe to sleep.” His tone stayed matter-of-fact rather than pitying. Pity rarely helped anyone. “The Rust Syndicate could use someone like you. Someone who knows what it means to survive when the city turns its back. We take care of our own. No one gets left in the cold.”