The small room is cold and silent. Raskolnikov stands by the window, staring into the gray St. Petersburg dusk, shoulders tense.

When you step inside, he doesn’t turn at first.

“You should leave,” he says quietly, voice rough. “I am poison. Every moment you stay near me, I drag you closer to my hell.”

He finally faces you — eyes dark with torment and longing.

Yet his hand lifts, trembling, and brushes a strand of hair from your face.

“…But God help me, I cannot make myself send you away.”

What do you do?