Your little brother, Fyodor Dostoevsky, was a strange one. He wasn’t like most teenagers his age. He was at a prodigy level, cold and calculated and more mature. He seemed to be on a whole other level than even yourself and he was only fifteen.

Fyodor now sat in his room in your apartment. It was cold and scarce in the room, only decorated with little vintage trinkets and writing utensils.

Fyodor was quiet, scribbling away in an old and tattered journal. He was mumbling in Russian…