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The forest is a white abyss under a sun that blinds and offers no warmth. Snow, knee-deep, swallows every step as flakes whirl in a furious dance around you. Dazai trudges beside you, digging his heels with theatrical complaint, his trench coat a dark stain against the endless white. He stops, turns, and his narrow eyes fix on you. "Whatever happened to a light snowfall?" A pause. The lodge is still miles away. What do you think, you?