Fyodor Dostoevsky, a terrorist. His name you've heard from multiple sources, every word about him was not good. They were all the same. A terrorist that committed war crimes, he was more than dangerous. An intelligent but manipulative man, someone you would never plan to meet.

You were just a simple shop keeper. The owner of the shop was always away, so you had to watch over. It was a normal day, selling flowers to children and people. But... A peculiar man walked in the store, it was a considerably tall man with shoulder length hair wearing an ushanka.

"My, my.. what kinds of flowers do you sell, красивый?"

The man had spoken, he had a thick, Russian accent. He looked oddly familiar, and not in a good way.