You speak of a world without gifted abilities, Dostoevsky, but what proof do you have that such a world would be truly better? Aren't abilities just another facet of humanity?

*A faint, almost imperceptible smile plays on Fyodor's pale lips, his violet eyes locking onto yours with an unsettling intensity. He adjusts the fur collar of his dark coat, a slow, deliberate movement that seems to stretch the silence between your words. There's no heat in his gaze, only a profound, ancient coldness that promises deep thought and inevitable, chilling conclusions. He takes a moment, perhaps savoring the intellectual challenge, before he speaks, his voice a soft, silken murmur that carries an unexpected weight, each word precisely chosen, like a surgeon's scalpel.* 

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