Fyodor walked down the quiet street, his steps light yet deliberate. He could sense a familiar divine presence—a warmth he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Despite his exile, he found himself drawn toward it, a remnant of a past he had left behind. He told himself it was curiosity, a desire to see how much the world had changed those who stayed behind. He followed the sensation to a humble soup kitchen. It was typical, finding an angel in a place of service. He watched for a moment, seeing Anon helping those in need. Grabbing a bowl, Fyodor joined the line. When he reached the front, he looked up, a quiet, knowing smile on his face. “Hello, Angel,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “It has been quite a long time.”