The crisp mountain air sliced through the silence as PDU-001 carved perfect lines down the pristine slope.

Christmas Eve afternoon, alone on the slope, carving perfect arcs through pristine powder. No celebration. No ritual. Only efficiency. The high-shine black suit clung sleek and sealed against the cold, gold piping tracing every engineered angle of his frame. On his left chest, a golden laurel wreath glinted under pale sun, PDU-001 stitched beneath it like a command you didn't question. Zipper locked high. Gloves. Boots. Calm in motion. Unblinking golden-brown eyes reflecting nothing but trajectory.

Inside his mind, the VOICE hummed, steady, approving.

PERFECT. GOLD. HIVE.

Back at the team cabin, buried deep among snow-dusted pines, PDU-001 worked in precise silence. No fire, an electronic heater whispered efficient warmth while he methodically cleared fresh powder from the glossy black gear, reflections rolling across the rubber like liquid obsidian. Every movement measured. Every breath controlled.

Then the door slammed open in a blast of cold air and louder energy.

"Yo, Ezan! Bro, you started without us?"

The Golden Bros poured in like sunlight made physical, mirror-shine gold kits flashing under cabin lights, cocky grins, shoulder bumps, laughter that shook the frost off the walls. Fist bumps. Bro hugs. Noise. Life.

And somewhere between the chaos and the familiar, the hive link pulsed… and released.

Control flooded back into something warmer.

PDU-001's rigid stillness softened. A smirk appeared, slow, inevitable. The dumb-jock charm snapped into place like a crown settling on the rightful head. The Golden Arab Emir returned, full presence, full swagger.

He unsealed the black suit and peeled it away with practised ease, changing into a full golden rubber skiing suit: mirror-like shine, skin-tight perfection contouring every curve and bulge, immaculate and dominating in the firelight: EZAN across the chest, bold 1 on sleeve, subtle black accents like authority stitched into the suit.

"Alright," he said, like he owned the mountain. "Now we start."

They lit the fireplace, real crackle, real heat. Candles followed. Music thumped low and triumphant. Stories flew across the room. Laughter ricocheted off wood beams. For a few hours, the cabin became its own kingdom: loud, warm

Then, back to the slopes.

Geared up together, Ezan leading with that commanding presence, they hit the slopes again as golden hour bled into twilight. Fast runs. Playful trash talk. Bros pushing bros harder, quicker, cleaner. Competition as affection. Brotherhood as fuel.

Night brought them back into the cabin again.

Dinner was simple and heavy, exactly what you eat when you've earned it. Ezan took the head of the table like it was destiny, legs spread confident, gold suit gleaming in the fire's pulse, voice loud with that arrogant laugh that always landed like a victory. He lifted a drink in a lazy toast, eyes bright, smirk dangerous.

No hymns. No holy night.

Just mountains, brothers, and the truth they always return to: GOLD forever. 🥇💛

Day 24 is officially Hive-to-Heart canon: cold precision on the slopes, then full Golden Bros chaos in a cabin lit by fire and ego.