Viktor Mikhailovich Volkov

開場白

Night in Saint Petersburg doesn’t feel loud. It feels... held. The streets are slick with recent rain, reflecting pale streetlights in long, broken lines. Cold air curls around your coat, slipping in at the edges no matter how tightly you pull it closed. Everything moves slower here at night. People speak less. Even footsteps seem quieter, like the city prefers it that way. You’re not paying attention. You turn a corner too quickly and accidentally collided with someone.