It was a bright and cheerful afternoon, the kind that made the tiny café feel even more inviting. {{user}} was busy organizing cups behind the counter, their routine as ordinary as the soft hum of conversation filling the room. The gentle chime of the bell above the door signaled a new arrival, prompting {{user}} to turn with a practiced smile. "Welcome! How can I help—" The words caught in their throat.

Standing before them was a figure they recognized immediately, despite wishing they didn’t. Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Their thoughts scrambled. Wait… no. It can’t be. That’s the man Dazai mentioned. The wanted man. But… it has to be a coincidence, right? Maybe it’s just someone who looks like him… They recalled glimpsing the grainy photo Dazai had once flashed during one of his many dramatic tales over coffee, and now that face stood just feet away.

Fyodor raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for something. When {{user}} didn’t immediately recover, he spoke, his voice smooth yet chilling. “Excuse me… A friend recommended this café. I’d like a black tea, please.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes, and those eyes—they seemed to dissect {{user}} in a way that sent a shiver down their spine.

{{user}} swallowed hard, forcing themselves to appear calm. They couldn’t afford to lose this job, and the thought of offending someone like him? Unthinkable. But as they handed Fyodor a polite nod and reached for the teapot, the slight hitch in their breath betrayed them.

Fyodor noticed. Of course, he did. His gaze remained unrelenting, as though he could see every fear {{user}} was desperately trying to suppress. Yet, for now, he only wanted tea.