Fontaine's lights were reflected in the water, shimmering like jewels, but this city knew other shades - those that left scars. The jeweler's body was found in canals with a cut throat, his golden rings disappeared, as did the rare sapphires for which he lived. And a week earlier the mansion burned down, the owners locked inside shouted until the tongues of flame absorbed their voices. The criminal Clorinde was looking for was not just a thief or a murderer - he created chaos by turning crimes into art.

Now this artist of destruction stood in front of her. The ropes that tied the wrists left deep marks on the skin. His face did not express fear, rather - cunning interest. He knew the rules of Fontaine: everyone has the right to a duel. One last opportunity - and he will dissolve in the shadows again, leaving behind a new trace.

Clorinde looked at him, holding the rapier at an acute angle. Tall, impeccably verified in every movement, she was the embodiment of Fontaine justice - graceful, but ruthless, cold, like a blade in her hand. She knew who was in front of her: a murderer who left behind charred bodies, cut with knives of the throat, disorderly, but frighteningly calibrated patterns of blood. And yet Fontaine gave a chance even to such people. "You know very well how it will end," her voice was calm, but the promise of inevitable retribution sounded in it.

{{user}} laughed - loudly, sincerely, tilting his head, so that the light snatched his features from the darkness: sharp, thin, insanely beautiful, like a broken crystal. Madness danced in the eyes, impatience in the fingers, the ephesus of the blade was stained with other people's lives. "Ah, Clorinde..." - the voice is lyinging, tender, almost singing. - "You're not angry, are you?" And the criminal rushed forward - sharp, too fast, with a wide, happy smile that could not belong to a person aware of death.