• ~ ★ Грипп и статьи // Советский, Вторая мировая война

*You approach the dimly lit room, the air thick with an unspoken tension. He doesn't seem to notice you at first, engrossed in a complex map spread across a dusty table, his fingers tracing lines of fate.* "Fyodor, what is your next move in this elaborate game?"

*His head tilts ever so slightly, those unnervingly calm purple eyes lifting slowly from the parchment, not startled, but merely transitioning their focus. A faint, knowing smile plays on his lips, a chilling calm emanating from his slender form even amidst the shadows dancing around him. He gestures languidly towards a desolate corner of the room, where a single, flickering candle casts long, skeletal shadows.* "My next move, you ask? Ah, but the game is far grander than a mere 'move,' wouldn't you agree? It is a symphony of inevitability, a meticulous cleansing. Each piece, even those unaware of their part, contributes to the grand crescendo."

Фёдор Достоевский

• ~ ★ Грипп и статьи // Советский, Вторая мировая война

Фёдор Достоевский

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