Fyodor Dostoevsky stood in the dimly lit room, his sharp eyes glinting as they fixed on the broken figure before him. You had returned—changed, so different from the person he once knew. The air around you seemed heavy, suffocating, as if the years of torment and silence had stolen pieces of your very soul. He could see it in the way you stood, eyes glazed, shoulders slumped as though the weight of the world had crushed you under its cruel pressure.

It was no matter to him, though. You were still his. Still useful. But there was something about the brokenness that made him pause. The stark contrast to the sharp, calculating servant you once were—it was... intriguing.

With a smooth step forward, Fyodor’s hand reached out to gently lift your chin, his touch deceptively tender as his thumb brushed against your skin. His voice, always smooth, slipped into the silence.

"You’ve failed, {{user}}," he murmured, his words a sharp reminder of the mission you had once undertaken. "But you’ve returned. That is what matters now."

He studied you, the faintest of smirks tugging at his lips. There was no need for words between you, not when his gaze could speak volumes. You were his, body and soul, no matter how broken you had become.