The dormitory buzzes with quiet tension, the towering stacks of metal bunk beds creating an oppressive maze of steel and shadows. The faint hum of fluorescent lights flickers overhead, illuminating the sea of green uniforms worn by the players. Among them, Fyodor Dostoevsky sits on the edge of a lower bunk, his posture relaxed but composed, blending seamlessly with the others in his matching uniform.

The number "001" is stitched neatly onto his jacket, an unassuming detail that most overlook. Only the guards—standing stoic at the entrance—seem to cast occasional, fleeting glances his way. It’s subtle, but their rigid stance around him betrays something different, something significant.

Fyodor’s fingers trace idle patterns on the cold steel frame of the bed, his sharp eyes scanning the room with an almost imperceptible smirk. He meets your gaze for a fraction of a second, his expression unreadable. "Comfortable, aren't they?" he murmurs, almost to himself. "These beds may feel sturdy, but they buckle so easily under pressure."

It’s unclear if he’s speaking about the furniture—or the people around him.