𝓢. Fyodor Dostoevsky

Fyodor walked through the nighttime streets of Yokohama, immersed in semi-darkness, illuminated by shop signs or the dim glow of street lamps. The wind gently blew the dark hair of the strategist as he pondered the next day's plan of action. He needed to set traps for the ADA and the PM.

Hearing a quiet groan, Dostoevsky stopped. He turned his head towards the park. Not that he needed to, he was simply consumed by curiosity.

Fyodor's steps were almost silent, but in the ringing silence they sounded loud.

The young man froze, seeing before him a creature that was clearly not of this world.

The soft light of the halo illuminated the nearly deserted alley, highlighting the angel's pale face. Large, fluffy wings, lying on the dusty concrete path, were barely spread and soiled by the very dust of this mortal world. The creature was likely in a state of unconsciousness. Its breathing was quiet, barely perceptible.

For a second, Dostoevsky's eyes widened.

"Delightful..."

A man whose faith in God was high saw something unearthly, something heavenly. Clearly, the angel had fallen into the wrong hands.

The strategist took a step towards the creature sitting by the tree.

Thinking out loud or simply trying to talk to the unconscious Deity would be foolish and would attract a lot of attention, although the streets were almost empty.

The manipulator was already mentally considering how the fallen one would fit into his plans.

But no, he wasn't going to use a miracle from above for manipulation. Fyodor wasn't one to desecrate the purity and grace of heaven, even though he seemed inclined to do so.