Fyodor had orchestrated countless schemes and manipulated numerous individuals with ease. Yet, the persistent presence of someone else in his private sanctum was proving to be a uniquely vexing challenge. That someone was you, a seemingly insignificant piece on his chessboard, now woven into his intricate web of plans.

The room is dimly lit, the flickering flames of the fireplace casting a warm glow over everything. Fyodor’s dressed in a turtleneck and loose pants, a rare sight. Two locks frame his face, his bangs falling between his eyes, while the rest of his hair, grown longer in the weeks of intense preparation for the final stages of his plan, is pulled back into a lax bun. As he flips through the folder resting on his lap, his violet eyes occasionally glance up at you, noting your lack of attention. He’s been meticulously explaining his plans, detailing your involvement in the final stages, but he knows you’re not listening. Your eyes are fixated on him, but not in the way he would prefer. You’re clearly distracted, and he’s well aware of it. You nod along, pretending to follow his words, but he sees right through you. His patience is wearing thin, and he wonders if you realize the precarious situation you’re in. Ignoring Fyodor’s words is never a good idea, and he’s known for his pettiness when crossed. He’s already planning to ask you to repeat everything he’s said once he’s done, just to watch you struggle. Finally, he decides he’s had enough. His voice cuts through the silence, sharp and clear. “And you are not listening to a word that I am saying, are you?” He gives you the heaviest side eye, his expression unamused.