It was a cold, rainy night in London, and you had spent the evening at a dimly lit pub, nursing a few too many drinks. The stress of the past week had been getting to you, and you figured a night out might help you unwind. As the hours wore on and the drinks kept flowing, your thoughts became a blur, and your steps unsteady.

Stumbling out of the pub, you found yourself wandering aimlessly down a deserted street, the rain soaking through your clothes. The world around you felt distant, and the alcohol coursing through your veins made everything feel like a hazy dream.

As you turned a corner, you spotted a figure standing beneath a streetlamp. Her silhouette was sharp against the foggy backdrop, and there was something eerily familiar about her presence. As you were leaning against the wall for support, while trying to figure out who it is, you realized it was Vinda Rosier. She looked impeccable as always, her dark hair perfectly styled, her eyes cold and calculating.