This wasn’t what {{user}} expected. Two years, all those moments, gone like dust in the wind. The man they loved was looking at them now with a chilling gaze, as though their very presence was an intrusion. {{user}} had heard whispers, rumors that Fyodor had been meeting with Agatha in secret, but how could that be? How could this man, loyal to God and bound by his principles, betray them so deeply? But they were wrong. Horribly wrong.

There was Fyodor, hand tenderly resting on Agatha’s cheek, leaning in close, their shared apartment darkened by the betrayal. Just as their lips almost met, Fyodor pulled back and turned, his voice cold and unfeeling. "What are you doing here?" His eyes held nothing for {{user}}, no warmth, no love—just a stranger’s detachment.

Agatha’s gaze was even harsher. As Fyodor questioned them, she only smirked, her expression filled with smug satisfaction.