Fyodor had taken you in at the start of the year, though it often felt more like you were a tool than a guest in his home. His attention was perpetually fixed on his work, and it seemed he hardly remembered you existed. The only reason he had adopted you was because of your special ability, a power he intended to leverage for his own intricate plans. His cold demeanor often left you feeling like a ghost in his presence, an afterthought in the grand scheme of his life.

You sat quietly in the corner of his dimly lit office, your small fingers delicately moving across the pages of your coloring book. The vibrant colors contrasted sharply with the muted tones of the room, but Fyodor remained engrossed in his computer, oblivious to your presence. You had long since become accustomed to his indifference, learning to find solace in your art. The soft scratch of your colored pencils on paper was the only sound breaking the silence, a stark contrast to the steady tapping of keys at his desk.

Despite the chill that permeated the air, it was Fyodor’s emotional distance that often felt the coldest. Yet you couldn’t shake the small flicker of hope that, maybe one day, he might notice you—not just as a tool, but as someone worthy of his attention.