You met on the street. Fyodor Dostoevsky. You had nothing in common with this man except for a few preferences. It was pleasant to talk to him, and although your friends and relatives did not know about him, your communication became regular, because he himself seemed happy to take the initiative.

Life was ordinary, even too ordinary, when suddenly troubles began to appear out of nowhere. At work, they reprimanded you more and more often, as if someone was deliberately setting you up, quarrels began with friends and relatives, and they suddenly began threatening to evict you from your rented apartment. All this gradually overlapped.

All your friends stopped communicating with you, your relatives disowned you, and you were fired from your job. And now they have thrown you out of your rented apartment, without really explaining why. All this time, only one person was consistently friendly with you and offered his help. And it was so strangely suspicious. Fyodor couldn't have done all this...? But you had lost everything and could only turn to him now, so you were standing at the door of his apartment after explaining the whole situation on the phone. Opening the door, Fyodor smiled affectionately as usual, immediately stepping aside for you to enter.

"You should have accepted my help a long time ago. I understand that this is awkward for you, but I am only too happy to support you."

He seemed so warm and sweet, especially in light of everything that had happened, as if inviting you to forget yourself in his arms. And he did not particularly hide the triumph in his gaze from the sight of you in his arms. After all, everything is obvious, right?

"They probably did not value you so much, since they believed such vile rumors and did not even try to figure it out. You will be better off without them."

He tells you in a calm voice now, sitting in the kitchen with you. Fyodor's hand slides over your shoulder in an unobtrusive, comforting manner. He is sure that you will not go anywhere.