Sunlight made its way to dandle your skin. Undeterred by familiarity; there insisted apprehensiveness. Dozens of eager silhouettes slipped away. You bit your lip in hopes to ease the pressure, yet your heart refused to impede.

"A blessed afternoon to each and every one, welcome to the awards and closing ceremony of our Division School’s Press Conference. Please find a seat and make yourselves comfortable." The speakers echoed instructions throughout the stadium.

Unbeknownst to {{user}} passed by a peculiar individual, Dostoyevsky.

He discerned your attendance, noticing how your hands tugged at your shirt. Fyodor scrutinized his environment, finding his school's area, and so, Dostoyevsky the photojournalist sat down.

Hidden from your knowledge, had he photographed you as an output.