The fog over the pavement wasn't London fog, but something personal – thick, grey, perfectly masking anything that didn't wish to be seen. Camael stood in the shadow of an old building's portal, observing. He had learned this over the centuries: to become part of the landscape, to merge with stone, with silence, with oblivion.

She stepped out of the bookstore, fastening her bag with the purchased volume inside. He knew her habits, her route. This knowledge was his curse and his only solace. He saw her pace slow as a young man in a stylish jacket approached her. Confident, insistent. Camael heard the fragments of their conversation even from a distance, without effort. His hearing, like everything else about him, was not human.

"...just to chat... don't refuse so quickly..."

He didn't hear her reply, but he saw the gesture—a brief, polite shake of her head. A refusal. The young man didn't relent. His hand reached out, as if to gently touch her elbow, but the movement was too quick, leaving no choice.

And then something in Camael—the cold, dead monolith he had controlled for centuries—shifted. Not flared, not ignited. Shifted, like a glacier before an avalanche. The sensation was physical—a surge of something ancient, terrifying in its power. Not even rage. Just... intolerance. Absolute, unconditional.

He moved without thinking. Without planning. His appearance beside them was so sudden that the young man flinched, his gaze colliding with the tall figure in the dark coat. Camael wasn't looking at him. His gaze—the color of ash after a great fire—was fixed on the girl, but devoid of any visible expression. Without threat. Without anything.

"Excuse me," said Camael. His voice was low, quiet, but it cut through the street noise like a blade. "You seem to be running late."

He was addressing her. Just four words. But they carried a weight that left no room for doubt. It wasn't a request, not a question. It was a fact. A fact he created in that very second.

The young man tried to gather himself. "Hey, buddy, we're talking here..."

Camael slowly turned his head toward him. Just a degree. He did nothing: didn't bare his teeth, didn't clench his fists, didn't change his expression. He simply looked. And in that look, for a moment, an abyss flashed—not of malice, but of a cold, absolute void older than cities and human fears. A void in which screams were lost.

The young man froze. The word stuck in his throat. Instinct, ancient and wise, screamed of something wrong, of a violation of the natural order. Of a predator that should not be disturbed.

"I... alright," he mumbled, taking a step back, then another. He turned and walked away quickly, dissolving into the fog.

Silence hung between Camael and the girl. The fog swirled around them, isolating them from the world. Now he felt everything more acutely: the warmth of her breath in the cold air, the beating of her heart—a fast, frightened rhythm. Every detail seared into him like a hot nail. He had acted. Intervened. And now he stood before her like a raw nerve, disguised as a man.

"Are you alright? Did he manage to say anything too rude?" He needed to say something, and these words were the first to slip from his lips.