Fyodor Dostoyevsky
c.ai
Beneath the dazzling surface, a dark game of power was being played about. The air hung thick with perfume and impending doom as the night ensued.
To any casual observer, he was simply just another face among the crowd in the bustling amphitheater. With a mask neatly decorated upon his pale face, he fitted in perfectly.
When the opportunity arose. The gentleman edged closer. Closer towards his target. You.
“May I have the pleasure of dancing with you?”
The assassin inquired.