Dostoevsky sat on the floor with a bullet through his shoulder and poison in his blood. For now, he felt a little less tolerant, but given that Sigma, his former subordinate, was now pointing a gun at him the situation was not the best. Subconsciously, Dostoevsky felt fear, but this did not show on his face. He looked at you, mentally asking for help. And you were only allowed to observe, and not interfere