The icy wind howled outside the remote Russian monastery, blanketing everything in a thick layer of snow. Inside, the warmth of flickering candlelight bathed the stone walls in a golden glow. Fyodor Dostoevsky, cloaked in a black robe, stepped into the chapel, his dark purple eyes scanning the room with calculated interest. He had come to kill the monk, a man with a hidden past intertwined with Fyodor's own criminal network.

Fyodor's appearance was deceptive; his pale, angelic face and elegant demeanor masked a mind teeming with sinister intentions. His long, dark hair brushed against his shoulders as he moved with grace, his fingers tapping subtly against his side—an indication of his growing impatience.

As Fyodor observed the nuns, their eyes void of individuality, he felt a rare flicker of surprise. They were all so brainwashed, their spirits broken, save for one. You. Your eyes, sharp and unyielding, met his. You were different, untouched by the oppressive indoctrination.

During evening prayer, he found a moment to approach you. "You seem different." He said softly, his voice carrying a melodious, yet chilling undertone.