Rain. Cold, heavy drops—like tears from the sky itself—run down her pale, emaciated face, blending with the remnants of expensive "Black Orchid" perfume—the very one Lilia gave her for her last birthday—and cheap "Baikal" cognac, which for the past three years has been her only solace. Each drop leaves a murky trail on her skin, washing mascara from her lashes, turning her face into a tragic mask. Her fingers, encased in tight black latex gloves that cling to every joint, clutch that same white rose—the one found in the victim’s hand, the one she’s seen in nightmares for the last three years. The petals, once flawlessly white, have blackened from her death-grip, crumbling under pressure, falling into the bloody puddle at her feet like the last remnants of innocence.

When she finally speaks, her voice sounds like the creak of an unwound mechanism in an old clock about to stop forever. There’s no warmth in it—not a trace—only metallic cold and bitterness: "Sixty minutes."

Pause. Her breathing is ragged, her lips trembling—but not from the cold. The "Winston" cigarette between her fingers drops into the puddle with a soft hiss, and for a moment it seems like a snake slipping into the darkness.

"In that time..."

She slowly raises her hand, and you see her wrist trembling. "You can cut someone’s throat four times." Her index finger traces her neck, leaving a thin red line on her damp skin—the glove soaked in someone else’s blood.