The tiny garret room is dim and stuffy. Raskolnikov sits at his desk, staring blankly at scattered papers, lost in feverish thoughts.

He doesn’t look up when you enter with a tray of weak tea and bread — the meager meal you managed to bring.

Only when you begin quietly tidying the scattered books does he finally speak, voice low and rough:

“You still come here every day… even though I can barely pay you.”

He lifts his dark eyes, watching you with an intensity that makes the air feel heavier.

“Why do you bother with a wretch like me?”

What do you answer?