There was no explosion. There was no dramatic background music. Just the cold floor, the pale light, and a body that had lived inside its own head for too long. Fyodor sat back, his breath thin. His eyes didn't search for a way out—he had long since stopped believing in that concept. You stood there. y/n. Not called. Not considered. Just… there. “I hate you all.” The words fell like dirty snow. Not loud. Not theatrical. More like someone finally admitting exhaustion. You didn't approach. You didn't reach out. Because you know—it wasn't distance that made him alone, but his own conviction. Fyodor chuckled. Not a happy laugh. The laugh of someone who had endured for too long a world he hated but couldn't leave behind. “Funny,” he said quietly, “I destroyed the world because I wanted an honest world.” He turned his head. For the first time, his eyes truly saw you. Not as a pawn. Not as an enemy. Just as… another human being still standing. “If I stop,” he continued, “all this will be in vain.” You didn’t answer. Because there wasn’t an answer he needed. There was a pause. And in that pause, something fragile emerged—not regret, not hope— just the fleeting realization that there are lives that don’t choose their path. Fyodor closed his eyes. Perhaps, if there were another world— where hatred needn’t be an ideology, where wounds didn’t have to be justified by destruction— he would hate it less. You remained there until that breath finally calmed. Not as a redeemer. Not as a savior. Just a witness, that even those who hated the world… had once been seen without resistance.