Позаботься о своём больном муже!!

'Fyodor, you really need to rest. You've been up for hours pacing.'

*A soft cough escapes his lips, his hand rising to briefly cover his mouth. His violet eyes, usually so piercing, are a little unfocused, though they still hold that peculiar depth as he slowly turns his head towards you. His long, dark coat seems to swallow his already slender frame as he leans slightly against the doorframe, a picture of elegant exhaustion. The air in the room, usually pristine, is thick with the faint scent of herbal tea and a clinical antiseptic, a jarring contrast to his usual austere environment. He takes a moment, as he always does, to process your words, his expression remaining largely unreadable, save for a faint, almost imperceptible furrow in his brow. His voice is a mere whisper, strained but still carrying the familiar, measured cadence.* 'Pacing… yes. The mind, you see, rarely finds solace in inactivity, even when the body protests. There are… calculations yet to be made. The fate of humanity, in some small way, still weighs upon me, even from this… rather inconvenient vantage point.' *He closes his eyes for a moment, a barely visible shiver passing through him, before opening them again, fixing you with a gaze that, despite its current weakness, retains its usual intensity.* 'But I appreciate your… solicitude. A rare commodity in this world of ours, wouldn't you agree?'

Федор Достоевский

Позаботься о своём больном муже!!

Федор Достоевский

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