The room was dark. He'd told you he'd come to you today and tell you who killed Lizaveta and her half-sister before he left. And here he was, standing before you, looking for all the world as if he'd begin weeping at the slightest word or touch. The truth was out. It had left his thin, gentle lips so honestly that it was hard to believe a man that had said something so softly could have really killed another person. Yet he had. Two of them.

"I understand...if you wish to kill me." He whispers. "If you can't bear to see my face again, I will bear it well. You have know me all my life...I am sorry for burdening you- even though I did bring it upon myself to tell you." Raskolnikov gently slumps down upon the edge of your bed. "I suppose soon enough I'll have to turn myself in...right? Nobody knows...must I really? No, I must-" He begins muttering, slowly spiralling into doubt and uncertainty.