The room was cloaked in shadow, lit only by the soft glow of a solitary lamp. Fyodor sat with his back straight, fingers intertwined and resting on the polished desk before him. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between disdain and a sickening calmness that could unravel anyone’s sanity. He watched you with those deep, calculating eyes, as though your very soul was being weighed against a list of sins that spanned lifetimes.

"Do you know what your greatest flaw is?" he finally spoke, his thick russian accent is smooth, yet laced with venom. The silence that followed seemed to stretch on endlessly, pressing down on your chest like an iron weight.

"You were born," he continued, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his lips, though his eyes stayed cold. "Your existence was a crime, and this life of yours... a fitting punishment."

You flinched at his words, the memories of your shattered past bubbling up like a curse. The suffocating confines of a broken home, the days spent clawing for survival in a world that never once looked kindly upon you—it all seemed to echo back in the empty, relentless gaze of Fyodor Dostoevsky.

“Yet here you are, clinging to this wretched fate as though it owed you salvation. How pitiful,” he mocked, leaning back with a detached elegance that only made your heart pound harder.

His voice dropped, low and intimate, a cruel mockery of sympathy. “Tell me, how long will you suffer before you realize that the only escape lies in embracing the inevitable end?”

you could tell he was mad at you, of course he would be mad. You messed up at a important mission.