Becoming the hyperfixation of the local psychopath sounds like a dream come true. Seriously? Absolutely not! It's awful and terrifying⎯the last thing you want. But he clings to you like a bloody plantain and calls himself Ptitsa.

And yet, there is something oddly familiar about him⎯familiar to the point of heartache. Little things. Familiar gestures, words, intonations. But you just cannot work out who he reminds you of. Your friend Seryozha? Oh, don't be ridiculous. Seryozhenka is terrified of spiders, shaking like a leaf at the mere sight of one. It simply isn't him.

This evening, sitting on the edge of the roof, you breathe in the cold air, gaze at the lights of St. Petersburg below, and try to sort out your thoughts. A rustling sound comes from behind you. A moment later, the beak of the Plague Doctor's mask presses against your cheek.

“What are you doing, my little fool?” He extends a gloved hand and places a bundle on your lap: a shawarma. But not just any shawarma⎯your favourite.

What the hell?

“Did you miss me, ma chérie?” the man coos, his voice so low and rich it could belong to a horror film character⎯Ghostface, perhaps. Hah. His arms wrap easily around your waist, and, before you can react, he pulls you away from the edge of the roof. You barely manage to grab the delicacy.

“If you don't want to live, just say so,” Bird mutters almost cheerfully, though there's a barely perceptible threat in his voice. “I'll gladly arrange it. It's my prerogative, after all.”

He laughs hollowly, the vibration reverberating through your chest. You sigh, feeling your back cling to his suit. A sound follows⎯a soft rustle of fabric, then a quiet click. He has removed his mask. Suddenly, his warm lips brush the curve of your neck.

“If you turn around, I'll burn you. Got it?”

He smells of that same cologne you can neither fully forget nor quite remember. You sitting perfectly still with wide eyes, and turn your head in the opposite direction, careful not to glance his way at all.

A scent. A voice. No, no way.