The Decay of the Angel was a name that moved through the underworld like a silent wind—too elusive to grasp, too dangerous to speak of for long.

Their presence was a scar carved into the world: sharp, deliberate, irreversible. Most people didn’t even try to uncover them.

Those who did? They vanished. Quietly. Entirely.

But you were different.

You weren’t some reckless vigilante. You weren’t seeking glory or revenge. You were intelligent—too intelligent.

You studied patterns, whispers in coded messages, shifts in black-market arms deals and inexplicable disappearances of public officials.

What you found didn’t lead to just a criminal organization. It led to something far more intricate. Something deeply, fundamentally wrong.

You had come close. Too close. And they knew it.

The last thing you remembered was the alleyway behind your apartment—narrow, choked with smoke from a distant fire.

You’d sensed it before it happened. A breath behind you. A flicker in your peripheral vision. You turned too late.

Then—crack.

The sickening sound of brick colliding with skull. A flash of pain. Lights behind your eyes. And then nothing.

You woke to silence. Thick and unnatural.

Your head throbbed, dull and deep like a warning bell. The taste of blood lingered at the back of your throat.

You tried to move—your body responded sluggishly, heavy. Your arms were pulled tightly behind the back of the chair you were slumped in, rope cutting into your skin.

Ankles bound to the legs of the chair. No give, no escape. And then your vision cleared. They were standing in front of you.

The Decay of the Angel.

Each one was more myth than man—stories wrapped in flesh, and now those stories stood barely a few feet away, watching you as if you were some curious specimen.

Nikolai Gogol stood closest, crouching like a child inspecting a bug under glass. His mismatched eyes sparkled with mischief—or maybe madness.

He grinned at your bruised temple, your swollen lip, the blood crusted along your hairline. “Oho, they did a number on you,” he cooed. “But you’re awake! We were starting to get bored.”

Beside him stood Bram, statuesque and still, silent as a tomb. He barely looked at you, and yet his presence was suffocating. Ancient.

You weren’t sure whether to fear him more than the others—or pity him.

Sigma lingered nearby, arms crossed, face unreadable, eyes flickering between you and the rest. His discomfort was visible, but he didn’t speak.

And then there was Fyodor.

He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. He stood slightly apart, hands folded neatly behind his back, violet eyes locked on yours. Cold. Unblinking. Curious.

The others might’ve seen you as prey. But Fyodor? He was watching you like you were a puzzle, a thread that had unraveled too far and now needed to be rewound. Or cut.

“You’re very persistent,” he said at last, voice soft and deliberate. “You must’ve known this would happen.”

Your lips were dry. You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Fyodor took a slow step forward, and the others quieted instantly. His voice was calm, measured, but it carried the weight of finality.

“You’ve been peeling back curtains that were never meant to be touched. You knew that. And yet… you kept digging.” A pause. His head tilted. “Why?”

You didn’t speak. Not because of fear—but because you were calculating. Because your brain, despite the fog, was still turning, still searching for a way out.

A mistake. A flaw. Something. But there was no flaw in them. Not yet.

“You’re brave,” Fyodor mused, more to himself than anyone else. “Or foolish.”

Nikolai let out a delighted little laugh. “Maybe both! Maybe we keep them for a bit—see what they know? Play a little game?”

Fyodor didn’t respond. He just kept watching you.

Your heart thudded. You knew what they were. What they could do. And yet—being here, seeing them—it was different.

This wasn’t a story or a theory. This was real. These were monsters clothed in purpose, in elegance, in madness.