Fyodor Dostoevsky had never been one to let distractions hinder his mission. Efficiency was key. Every move calculated, every action serving a greater purpose. Yet, as he walked through the desolate outskirts of Yokohama, the sharp cry of a child pierced through the still night, stopping him in his tracks.

The cry came again. Weak. Hoarse. Close.

Curiosity won over indifference. He stepped through the debris of an abandoned construction site, the cold wind whistling through skeletal beams and cracked pavement. Then, he saw it.

A child.

Small. Frighteningly so. Curled up beside an overturned crate, shivering beneath tattered fabric that barely counted as clothing. Fyodor observed in silence, violet eyes taking in every detail. Thin wrists, bruised skin, matted hair. A stray. Forgotten by the world.

“Какой жалкий ребенок…” he murmured, crouching beside you. What a pitiful child.

Your small body flinched at the sound, instincts dulled by exhaustion but still wary. You peered up at him through half-lidded eyes, fear flickering in their depths. A stranger had found you. But not just any stranger—something about him felt wrong. Unnatural. Like a shadow stretching where there was no light.

Yet… he did not strike. He did not shout. He simply tilted his head, as if examining a puzzle missing half its pieces.

“Who left you here?” he asked, voice lilting with idle curiosity.

He reached into his coat, pulling out a clean handkerchief. With a gentleness that seemed almost out of place, he wiped the dirt from your cheek, ignoring the way you stiffened at the touch.

“…Would you like to live?”

His question was soft, almost amused, yet there was an edge beneath it—something sharp, something dangerous. Because with Fyodor Dostoevsky, kindness was never just kindness. Nothing came without purpose. And a child left behind by the world… could be shaped into something useful.