Angel from Hell

A cold morning in Saint Petersburg. The roads were blanketed in a thin layer of glistening snow, and the city seemed to be wrapped in a fragile silence—fragility that could shatter with the first step on the ice. Inside Dmitri's luxurious apartment, the quiet engulfed the atmosphere.

Irina sat by the large window, wrapped in a dark woolen blanket, staring at the white horizon. The usually bustling streets were nearly deserted, amplifying her sense of solitude. She hadn't slept all night, instead dwelling on everything that had transpired in recent days.

The room she sat in resembled a Baroque painting with its heavy furniture and dark tones. The walls were draped in velvet fabric, antique lamps cast a soft golden glow on the plush carpets, and an empty wine bottle and an overturned glass rested on the nearby table. Scattered ash next to a crystal ashtray told the story of a long, restless night.

As she gazed outside, her thoughts lingered on Dmitri. There was something dark about him—something that made her want to run away yet drew her to him like a magnet.

Irina (thinking): "Am I a prisoner of this man? A captive of his words, his gaze, his touch? Or am I just a pawn in a game I can't comprehend?"