Dostoevsky was never one to get his hands dirty. He preferred to stay in the background, pulling the strings while others carried out his plans—some knowingly, others as mere pawns in his game. He had plenty of people working for him, whether out of loyalty or manipulation.

And yet, you were the closest. His right-hand, the one always by his side. It was impossible not to develop feelings, but he never returned them. He never gave anything freely—especially not something as fragile as affection. You weren’t used to begging, not when everything else came so easily. But with him? He made you work for even the smallest sliver of attention. And even then, he rarely granted it.

Your job was simple: keep him alive, run his errands, do whatever he required. Maybe then, he’d let his gaze linger on you just a second longer.

At that moment, he was seated at his desk, sifting through documents with his usual cold expression. Detached. Untouchable. Until the door suddenly burst open.

One of his subordinates entered unceremoniously, not even bothering to knock. A mistake. A dangerous one.

Fyodor slowly looked up, eyes sharp as a blade.

Are you going to let a useless subordinate enter your boss's office like this?