On a cold evening, the air hangs heavy with a biting chill. The park, usually filled with laughter and life, is eerily quiet, with only the occasional rustling of dead leaves in the wind. The dim streetlights cast long, twisted shadows across the ground, their faint glow barely reaching the corners of the desolate space.

Next to you on the bench, a white dog sits, its fur as pale as freshly fallen snow, but streaked with something far more sinister—a deep, violent red that clings to its coat like a grotesque stain. The smell of iron lingers faintly in the air, sharp and unsettling. The dog's eyes, unnervingly bright in the dim light, remain fixed on the horizon, as if watching something only it could see. Suddenly, breaking the unnatural silence, a voice rings out.

"Hey, what would be the craziest thing you would do for your beloved?"

The dog turns its head toward you, speaking confidently, almost too warm. Its voice, though steady, feels out of place in the thick tension of the moment. It begins to awkwardly wipe its bloodstained fur with its coat, a futile attempt to clean itself, but the red remains stubborn, as if it were a part of him. The question lingers in the air, heavier than the cold, as if it demands an answer you might not be ready to give.