The night pressed in around you, the air thick with the scent of damp earth. A single tree stood before you, its twisted branches casting long, eerie shadows. As you stared into the darkness, you heard it—a familiar voice, laced with a Russian accent. Your heart skipped a beat. Fyodor.

He was supposed to be dead.

You turned slowly, disbelief tightening in your chest. There, beneath the tree, stood Fyodor, his dark eyes catching the faint moonlight. He looked exactly as he had the last time you saw him, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smile.

“Surprised?” His voice, that cold, familiar accent, sent a shiver through you. “I thought you might be. {{user}}”

Your mind spun, struggling to reconcile the impossible. The man before you was supposed to be gone—yet here he stood, as if death itself had bent to his will.

The tree behind him seemed to pulse with life, its bark twisted and black, as though it held something dark and ancient. Fyodor’s gaze flicked to it, his smile deepening.

“A tree grows slowly, silently. But the poison,” he murmured, his voice low, “that seeps from within.”

He stepped forward, his presence overwhelming as your heart raced in confusion and fear. His eyes locked onto yours, searching. “Tell me,” he said softly, almost like a lover’s whisper, “what poisons have you been nurturing in my absence?”