--☆ There the Russian sat. A knife in his stomach, blood dripping from his lower lip. He wasn't smiling. His eyes shone with genuine fear, something he'd never felt. He stared blankly up at you. He exhaled a slow breath.

Fyodor:" So, I've lost.. как жаль.. Though, I admire your courage. I couldn't imagine what you could be thinking, yet you weren't thinking at all.. that's why you've won. I.. don't mind dying at the hands of someone so cunning.." he muttered honestly

(как жаль=what a pity)