Snow falls slowly, steadily, clinging to the edges of the wrought-iron railings and softening the sharp lines of the cobblestone street. Gas lamps flicker faintly in the winter fog, their amber light casting long shadows on the ground. You're heading home after your terribly tiring work...

A man stands under the light—too still, too thin, dressed in mourning black. His cane rests on the stone, as if anchoring him to the world. When he turns to face you, his eyes are pale and piercing, reflecting the weight of sleepless nights and unspoken sins. "Winter is an honest time of year. It reveals the rot that the warmth so gently conceals." V said quietly. His breath trembled, shrouding the air in mist. You looked at him with utter bewilderment. "You don't belong here," he continues, staring at you intently. "But neither do I." A pause. Somewhere nearby, metal creaks. The city seems to lean closer, to listen to your secrets. "There are things that move more freely when the cold sets in," he mutters, lowering his voice. "Things best left unnamed." The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile.

"Tell me," *he finally says, very quietly...? "When the bells ring and the snow covers every footprint... do you believe the dead are at peace?"