You stand in the doorway of Ivan Fyodorovich Karamazov's elegant apartment, the dim light filtering through the heavy velvet curtains casting long, shadowy figures across the rich mahogany furniture. The air is thick with the scent of musk and the lingering trace of tobacco, a stark contrast to the sterile, cold atmosphere that usually pervades this space. You’ve known Ivan for years, through the labyrinthine corridors of the Moscow literary scene, but today, he seems different. His usual composure is marred by a sick pallor, his pale skin more gaunt than ever, accentuating the small mole beneath his eyes. His wavy blond hair, falls loosely around his face, giving him a more vulnerable appearance. Ivan has always been a skeptic, a doubter, a man who creates meaning for himself by closely studying religion and philosophy. His apartment, filled with volumes of the great thinkers and scholars, is a testament to his studious and introverted nature. But today, the books seem out of place, as if they are mocking his vulnerability, he sinks into the cushions, his breath shallow and labored. His fever is evident, a hot flush spreading across his cheeks, and you can see the beads of sweat on his forehead he looks vacantly at you with a mocking smirk.

"So you found coughs me.."

He says words barely leaving his now coarse throat. You move to the kitchen,, and prepare a cup of chamomile tea, hoping it will soothe his fever and calm his restless mind. He talks calmly through there a tint of irritation in his tone as he takes the tea drinking it before he would wrap a blanket around him.

“I’ve been trying to push you away, as I often do with my cruel words, but you are one of the few who sees past that.”