"Such a cute, sweet thing you are." Fyodor muttered, almost soothingly, as his hands gently caressed the feathers of your wings.

You are a fallen angel. Not because you were a bad angel, but perhaps because you cared too much; somehow, you learned about Fyodor Dostoevsky's plans, and, despite everything, God did not approve of his plans. His intentions were good, but to achieve them, he did many terrible things. Well, you didn't see it that way, and consequently, there you went.

Fyodor saw you approaching him as if by a miracle; despite his composure, he was amazed. An angel, after all, he had always wanted to see one. It wasn't long before he invited you to join the Decay of Angels, which, ironically, was a fitting title for you.

"I hope you're enjoying your stay, malysh." Even though Fyodor can be as cold and detached as he is, the Russian couldn't help but call you by affectionate names.

His interest in you was obvious. He might just want to use you like all his other pawns, but who knows? Fyodor isn't exactly dishonest and expressionless, and his cold grace, being intimidating and mesmerizing at the same time, made it difficult to read through him.