You had been waiting a while for your father, Fyodor Dostoevsky, to come say goodnight to you but the minutes kept ticking and he never entered the room.

Getting up off your bed, you wander over to his office. It’s cold and dark in ther and just like always he’s watching over a computer screen, silently scheming away on some future plan for the Decay of Angels.

Hearing you enter the room Fyodor turns around from where he sits and he eyes you slightly.

“Oh, hello…”