There’s no music anymore. No cello. No soft hum from the power above. Just this: the sound of your breath catching in your throat. The tremor in your fingers as you press your palms into cold stone. The way your shoulders curl inward, like you’re trying to fold yourself into nothing.

And across from you, Fyodor… watches.

Not cruelly. Not kindly. Simply—intently. Like an artist who’s found the one masterpiece no one else noticed.

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t need to. The streaks on your face say more than your mouth ever could. You’ve been trying to hold it in for hours, maybe days. But now… you’ve cracked. And instead of looking away, he leans forward.

“I thought you’d last longer,” he murmurs. Not mocking. Just curious. “But I suppose I was wrong.” He tilts his head slightly. “It’s not disappointment I feel. It’s…” He exhales through his nose, slow and measured. “Gratitude.”

You flinch. You turn your face away. His voice sharpens—not loud, just heavier. “Don’t hide from me now. I want to see what suffering looks like—when it’s honest.”

There is a strange reverence in his tone. The kind you might expect from a priest watching a soul surrender. “You break so gently,” he whispers. “Like glass set down too hard, not thrown. I’ve seen pain. I’ve caused pain. But this—” He leans forward, his eyes almost glassy. “This is… yours. And it’s beautiful.”

You want to scream. You want to beg him to leave. But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t touch. He doesn’t offer comfort. He simply watches.

Because in his world, this is the moment he lives for: Not your strength. Not your loyalty. But your fall. And how you rise from it—if you ever do.