You were the child of Fyodor Dostoevsky, a Russian terrorist, but despite his dubious occupation, he remained a good and supportive father.

One day, while out with you, he noticed someone eyeing you. Stepping forward, he held your hand and confronted the man.

The man: “Heh... W-what... Who are you...?”

Fyodor: “I’m the father of the child you’ve been staring at seductively for the last hour,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows and speaking in a strong Russian accent.