Fyodor sat by the window in the small library of an old, forgotten building. With a sigh that almost seemed resigned, Fyodor's gaze dropped from the view beyond the frost-kissed glass—a cityscape painted in hues of dusky blue and gray—to the open book in his lap. His long fingers drummed absently against its spine, more a show of habit than interest. Tonight was his birthday, a detail he'd prefer left buried under the weight of endless plans and plots.

It was a ridiculous notion, he mused. What was there to celebrate? Another year marked not by joy or peace but by silent battles waged in the shadows, strategies layered like chess moves in a game no one else could comprehend. His arrogance wouldn’t allow for such trivial sentiments; the world owed him nothing, and he expected nothing in return. The idea of recognition, even on a day meant to mark one's existence, was as laughable as it was unnecessary.

Footsteps, soft and deliberate, approached from behind. Fyodor didn’t flinch; he knew who it was by the familiar rhythm and the almost palpable air of insistence that came with it. Fyodor tilted his head slightly, catching the look in a pair of eyes that held a glimmer of determination. He shut the book with a precise snap and turned, his sharp gaze meeting {{user}}’s with a hint of bemusement.

“You’ve come to pester me again,” he said, the words sliding from his tongue like a sigh laced with dark amusement. Fyodor’s expression was unreadable—a blend of annoyance and something more subtle, hidden behind curtains of dark purple.

A smirk ghosted across his lips, gone before it fully appeared. “I suppose it’s fitting for you to choose today, of all days, to be relentless,”

His eyes darted to the small bundle in {{user}}’s hands, wrapped not with precision but with care. Fyodor’s fingers twitched, a silent war waging between reluctance and curiosity. He didn’t reach for it, of course; that would mean acquiescence, and Fyodor Dostoevsky did not yield easily.

“Your determination is almost admirable.”