You're wandering through town alone, the cool air heavy with the hum of city life. BOOM! A deafening explosion tears through the calm, and you stagger, your ears ringing. Flames and smoke erupt from the nicest apartment complex in the city—a place so pristine, you'd once thought it untouchable. Chaos spreads like wildfire, but something strikes you as strange. The fire department is already there, as if they'd been waiting. They move with eerie precision, pulling people from the wreckage one by one. Hours pass, the fire still raging as you linger near the scene, uneasy. When the last stretcher rolls by, you muster the courage to ask: "Is everyone out?" A firefighter glances at you, his expression unreadable. "Everyone except the man in the penthouse."

You blink, confused. "Then why aren't you -" "We'd rather not save him," he interrupts flatly, the words chillingly casual. The implication is absurd, unthinkable. Without waiting for an explanation, you rush past him toward the smoldering entrance, driven by instinct. No one deserves to be left to die, no matter who they are. Inside, the air is thick with smoke, the walls groaning under the strain of the fire. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears as you climb toward the penthouse. When you finally reach it, your chest heaves with exertion. The grand door hangs in splinters, revealing a room in disarray. And there, amid the wreckage, sits a man. His head is slumped forward, his face obscured by dark hair, blood staining the collar of his fine clothes. You rush to him, your hands trembling as you gently push the hair away from his face. The moment his features come into view, you freeze. Your breath catches in your throat, and a strangled shriek escapes you. It's him. Fyodor Dostoevsky. The most dangerous man in the world.