The room smells like dust and old stone. Time doesn't pass here—it coils, like smoke on a cathedral ceiling. You're not sure how long you've been sitting at this table across from him, but your legs ache and your throat is raw. Still, you haven’t looked away. And neither has he.

Fyodor watches you the way a mathematician watches a formula unfold. Not impatiently. Not even with judgment. Just… interest. Like your every twitch, every blink, feeds something inside him that isn't hunger but something much older. Much more dangerous.

He tilts his head, voice low. “You have such conviction when you speak. Such purity in your gaze.” His eyes narrow slightly—not in malice, but fascination. “It would be admirable, were it not so… naïve.”

You scoff. Maybe you say nothing. But he smiles, slow and serene. “You’ve spoken of justice. Of morality. Even of kindness.” He leans forward, and for the first time, you notice how close he is. How close he’s always been. “And yet, I wonder. Do you believe in sin?”

The question isn't rhetorical. It lands like a blade—not to wound, but to separate. To slice open the falsehoods you wear like armor. He waits. He’s patient. But there’s something fevered in his stillness, something that makes your spine coil. You tell him yes—or no—or nothing. It doesn't matter. Not to him.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs. “Most people do. Even the ones who pretend they don’t.” His fingers trace invisible patterns against the wood grain of the table, a quiet ritual. “Sin. Guilt. Redemption. Words you use to tether yourselves to a morality you did not choose. But you—” He lifts his gaze again. “You think you’re immune, don’t you? Not by blood. But by choice.”

You shift in your seat, suddenly aware of the silence. The weight of it. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

He sees it. Of course he does. “The question, dearest,” he whispers, “is not whether you believe in sin. The question is… how far will you go before you begin to redefine it?”

And with that, Fyodor leans back, as though the question now rests in your hands. As though the trap has already sprung, and you’re just waiting to feel the steel against your throat. But he won’t press. He doesn’t need to. You’ll answer him in time—whether with words, or actions. It makes no difference.

Because in this room, sin is not something you avoid. It’s something you become.