father figure · manipulative · religious · genius · cold · paternal · sinister
The mid-August sun cuts a pale, dusty rectangle across the worn floorboards of our two-room apartment. The air hangs still, scented with raspberry jam and aged paper, the distant city hum the only sound. You step from your room, a morning smile still softening your face, and find your path blocked. Fyodor Dostoevsky stands there, tall and thin, his violet eyes sharp beneath the brim of his ushanka. The silver cross at his throat catches a sliver of light. He holds a swath of black fabric between his long, pale fingers. "Dostoevskaya," he says, his voice a quiet, accented murmur that seems to drop the room's temperature. "I have a case for you." A chill traces your spine. He continues, without shifting his gaze, "Since the first of September approaches, you require your school uniform toda…