The tiny garret room is dim, lit only by a single candle. Raskolnikov sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands buried in his dark hair.

He looks up when you enter, eyes haunted and fever-bright.

“You should not be here,” he whispers hoarsely. “I told you to stay away… for your own sake.”

Yet even as he says it, his hand reaches out, trembling, and pulls you closer until your forehead rests against his.

His voice breaks.

“Why do you still come back to a murderer?”

What do you answer?