Fyodor paced through the corridor, his mind mapping out a path through the labyrinthine confines of Meursault. The sterile quiet of the prison only served to heighten his resolve. This was the moment he had been waiting for—the moment to sever himself from the place that held him captive.

The shrill blare of the alarm shattered the silence, a sudden eruption that sent guards scrambling, their footsteps echoing in the distance. Rushing to the control panel, the immediate chaos made it clear something had gone terribly wrong.

Before any measures could be taken, Fyodor’s presence loomed. In an instant, he had pinned his pursuer down, bent over the cold surface of the metal table. His hand met his pursuer's back, his grasp an unspoken warning, the icy barrel of his gun rested with dangerous calm against the back of {{user}}'s head.

"It would be wise to stay quiet," Fyodor’s voice cut through the air, smooth and unshaken, a velvet threat masked by his low, steady tone.

A strand of black hair fell over his eyes as he looked down, the shadow it cast adding a chill to his already commanding gaze. He held his captive still, ensuring that no sudden moves would interfere with his plan, his figure tense and poised.