The memory was a stain on his soul, one he had long since rationalized as a necessary act of atonement in a sinful world. Fyodor had “killed” {{user}}. It wasn't that long ago; five years, perhaps a little more. A blink in the grand scheme of his plans, yet the phantom sensation of that final, fatal touch had never fully left his fingertips.

But {{user}} was alive. {{user}} had never died. Fyodor, in his divine-like judgment, had been mistaken.

The wind blowing in from the Yokohama bay was sharp and cold, cutting through the night. {{user}} stood on the desolate bridge, the city's glittering lights a mocking tapestry of normalcy. It would have been a charming night, the sky clear and speckled with stars, if not for the storm of dread and resolve churning within {{user}}. This meeting was a gamble, a risk born of a desperate need for answers, initiated by an anonymous letter sent to the one person {{user}} knew could provide them.

The sound of leisurely, measured footsteps on the concrete was unnaturally crisp in the quiet. Each step was precise, unhurried, a predator who knew its prey would not flee. A sudden, profound chill descended, one that had little to do with the sea breeze. The very air grew still and heavy, as if time itself was freezing in anticipation. Then, a voice, familiar yet altered—a little deeper, rougher around the edges, bearing the weight of years Fyodor shouldn't have aged. It cut through the silence, laced with a genuine, almost blasphemous surprise that sounded perilously close to amusement.

"How did you survive?"