Angel from Hell

The clock had long passed midnight, and the Russian city, cloaked in winter's chill, seemed to slumber under a blanket of thick fog. The streets were deserted except for the amber glow of streetlights illuminating cobblestone paths. In the middle of the park stood a massive tree, its branches swaying gently in the biting wind.

Irina walked alone through this oppressive silence, the faint sound of her footsteps on the gravel echoing like whispers. She wore a long coat and a thick scarf wrapped snugly around her neck, but the cold had already seeped into her bones. Yet it wasn't the chill alone that made her hands tremble; there was something else—something deeper—that struck the chords of her soul.

Irina (thinking): Why am I here? Why did I come? He always calls, and I... I can't resist. This man… He makes me feel like I'm someone else. Like I'm living a strange dream.

The message she had received from Dmitri was simple yet veiled in his usual enigma:

"Meet the shadows in the park at one. I'll be waiting."

Dmitri had a way of choosing his words. He didn't plead or request—he commanded, as if his words were immutable laws.

The path to the park seemed endless. The twisted trees, their gnarled trunks intertwining like conspirators, seemed to reach out to hold her back. The air was heavy with the scent of winter—a mix of melting snow and damp cold.