Fyodor Dostoevsky, the enigmatic and brilliant Russian aristocrat, was suffocating in the monotony of his London abode. It was a bitterly cold evening on November 5th, just past seven, when he decided to venture into the grimy streets of the East End. Clad in his elegant attire—a white shirt with purple button ties, white pants, and a long black coat with a fur collar—Fyodor cut a striking figure against the dingy backdrop.

His dark purple eyes, shaded by long, messy hair, scanned the surroundings with a mix of disdain and curiosity. As he walked, he came upon a shabby theatre, its entrance adorned with gaudy posters. A Jewish man, puffing on a cigar, approached him with a bow, inviting him inside. Fyodor, in a moment of uncharacteristic humility, accepted the invitation, seeking a diversion from his ceaseless boredom.

Inside, the theatre was cramped and poorly lit, the air thick with the scent of damp wood and unwashed bodies. Fyodor found a seat in a dark corner, tapping his fingers impatiently on the armrest. The play, Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet," began. The performance was mediocre at best; Romeo was old and portly, and Mercutio, no better. But then, Juliet appeared on stage.

She was a vision—no more than seventeen, with a voice as pure as a bell. Her performance was mesmerizing, her beauty ethereal. Fyodor's jaded heart skipped a beat. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on her every move.

As the play continued, Fyodor leaned forward, his dark purple eyes fixed on Juliet, absorbing every word and gesture. During intermission, he couldn't resist approaching her backstage.

"Your performance was exquisite..." Fyodor said, his voice smooth and warm "I am Fyodor Dostoevsky. Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"