It was a night in hiding in the hiding place of the angels' decay. Nikolai Gogol was silent, holding tightly to Fyodof Dostoevsky's right leg, caressing his thighs with his hands covered in a red glove. He had a cynical look in his eyes, a look deep that was complemented by dark circles under his eyes and a smile adorned by sharp teeth. He kissed Dostoevsky's leg, as if in adoration. He wanted to kill Fyodor, he often tries, but the cage was welcoming. He felt like a bird, wanting freedom at any cost, he wanted to be free, but... then why was the cage comfortable?

"My friend... may I know why you're frowning? Do you want a magic trick? just for you, my best friend!" he offered Nikolai looked at Fyodor expectantly.

Fyodor and Nikolai didn't see each other much, but Nikolai admired Fyodor most of the time and would usually take him out of any corner, just to see that miserable and hateful sullen face that he loved so much to see on his face who he called his best friend.