Paris, 1910.Rain, occasional thunderstorms. Fog

Its yellowish glow barely illuminated my makeup when, (user), the prima donna of the Birds of Paradise cabaret, adjusted her false eyelashes. The city, usually bustling with life, was gripped in the grip of fear. Dhabi. The very name, torn from his nightmares, pierced the air, leaving a trail of panic in its wake. He was seen only once, in a raging hurricane that shattered the laboratory where he was allegedly kept locked up. And then – silence. Two weeks filled only with rumors, whispers behind the screens, and icy horror in the eyes of the townsfolk.

After the performance, you were sitting in front of the mirror, about to take off your dress, when a sudden crash shook the door.Dabi? It's ridiculous. They're just urban legends, blown out of proportion. But then you heard a voice. It was strange, unexpected–beautiful, melodious, like a nightingale's song on a summer night. It's not the voice I imagined the voice of the "killer."

There was a door to a small courtyard behind my dressing room. My heart began to beat faster as I carefully opened it, overcome with curiosity. And there, leaning on crudely constructed boxes, he stood. Dabi.

Not the embodiment of evil from newspaper gossip, but a man. Wounded, pale, with drops of blood slowly spreading down his shirt. His eyes, clouded with pain, were filled with a kind of hopeless despair. He barely moved his lips.:

"Oh shit..."