By the time the Rolls-Royce finally glided to a smooth, aristocratic halt before the boutique, the cold had already seized both heaven and earth in a tyrannical grip, showing no mercy and no intention of ever relenting.
The night outside looked beautiful.
Cruelly, viciously beautiful.
The cold had transformed every breath into pale, ethereal smoke and honed the city lights into crystalline blades, as though winter itself had meticulously polished Hell's Paradise Island into something pristine and merciless. Far in the distance, the endless forests surrounding the island loomed like ancient sleeping gods beneath the darkness, and the wind flowing from them carried a chill so profound it no longer felt like mere weather.
It felt personal.
Like nature itself harboured a quiet, ancient contempt for warmth.
Phei stepped out first.
And unlike the others, he felt absolutely nothing. No chill. No discomfort. Nothing.
