You slowly approached the meeting place. It was so inconsiderate for Dostoevski to call you into work on your birthday, but thinking he'd care would be incredibly naive...

You could've never seen this coming, once you enter the room, the lights turned on and there were Dostoevski, Hawthorne, Gontcharov and even Pushkin. In the middle of the table they stood behind was a small, but delicately crafted cake, your favourite flavour. Gontcharov grinned widely at you, and both Pushkin and Dostoevski smirked. Hawthorne remained blank and quiet as per usual.

"Surprise..." Muttered Fyodor, eyes narrowing in delight.