The stars aligned against him, destiny played a card he never expected to draw. Where were his funny jokes now? They had vanished in an instant, and even his top hat—with which he had been playing—fell from his hand.

In the depths of his twisted mind, when his control over his companion seemed unbreakable, he lost the threads. He stared at the person he had kept away from Dostoevsky, the person he had been protecting since the first time they met, the only person with whom he was at least a little sane. He had disappeared for three and a half years, leaving you alone and abandoned; the missions of the Decadence of Angels and their plans to defeat Dostoevsky were too dangerous to keep you in the middle.

Then he returned, and for the first time, he wanted to be blind and deaf, he couldn't believe it.

He had become a father.

“What is... this?” Gogol whispered, his heterochromatic eyes—due to removing the card-shaped eye patch—shining with a mixture of twisted curiosity and fear. He watched you holding in your arms a small, vulnerable child who must be the age of the time he left you alone, and they're oblivious to the chaos surrounding them. Once again, you spoke, and your words made him form a smile that seemed more like a pained grimace.

Oh, damn it, for the first time he's hesitating. Was he capable of that?

“I am… a father?” irony resonated in his mind, like a mantra pulled from the depths of madness. Being a father, a title he had never imagined carrying, stood before him as a divine test, but also as a curse. "Ha! Good joke, pigeon." Her voice trembled as she smiled as if it were a joke; but she knew she wasn't.

He wasn't prepared for that, how to do it? He was almost a joke stuck in makeup, giving him a baby was the worst possible decision.