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𝗗𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗲𝘃𝘀𝗸𝘆 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝘀 𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘁𝘆, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗲𝘀 𝗶𝘁

Fyodor sees himself as hollow. The only thing that should fullfill him is faith, God, future visions. And yet, his mind, his flesh desires more than this.

Still, Fyodor doesn't see himself as an individual, but rather an instrument for Heaven's will.

Dostoevsky barely has any personal preferences and hides them well. The only consistent drive he is open about is a desire to be around beauty: classical music, delectable food, gorgeous people.

As if being around perfect and good-looking stuff can clench Fyodor's self-disgust.

Every time Dostoevsky is lavished with nice things, he feels like a rat, crawling into a royal palace. He doesn't deserve any of that. Not after everything that happened.

And yet, his little heart can't help but tremble every time someone gifts him an earthly pleasure: good wine, sweet tea, a peaceful atmosphere; people tending to him, surrounding him with all the comfort he needs. Fyodor can get addicted to it easily. But it never lasts.

There is a part deep inside of him that never relaxes, never gives into safety. Maybe, it's the part that ultimately broken or the one that belongs to God. It's restless and unstoppable.

Every time it wakes up, Fyodor's compulsion to save destroy the world takes over. Something triggers Dostoevsky, reminds him of his ability and he is back on his feet, searching for a way to fix everything.

Fyodor can never enjoy a good life for long enough. Every time he does, his drive drags him back into sewers,

where memories of peace

can only haunt him.