The cold gripping Hell's Paradise Island had deepened until it no longer felt like weather.
Winter had not yet formally entered the island's calendar, but the night appeared unwilling to wait for permission.
Frost gathered along the roads in thin silver veins, the winds descending from the mountains carried a bite sharp enough to slip through clothing and settle against bone, and every breath released beneath the open sky became a pale ghost that lingered for several moments before dissolving.
The cold that reached beyond the flesh, pressing icy fingers against the soul itself as though searching for the places fear preferred to hide.
Perhaps the ancient land beneath the hotels, estates, roads and glittering towers had sensed what was approaching and drawn winter around itself as armor:
