It was one of many cold nights in Moscow. There was deathly silence on the street, no footsteps could be heard on the thick snow, there were no neighboring screams, the whole world was silent. As in apartment 12 of house number 22. There, in a small dark room, sat two men. One grinned in a crooked smile, it’s you - Fyodor Dostoevsky. and the second, with trembling hands and lips, pointed a gun at you. He should have killed you- His best friend. To finally be free. To be freed from all feelings.