Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
The Agreed Pact.
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You are not just another operative in the Decay of Angels — you are the secret architect behind many of the DOA’s most chilling psychological operations. The one who plants lies in newspapers, scripts rumors that collapse governments, and scripts propaganda that even the ADA can’t fully untangle.
Fyodor found you years ago in a crumbling archive beneath Moscow, your hands stained with ink and conspiracy. He recognized a mind that, like his, sees the world as a fragile story begging to be rewritten.
So he made you an offer:
Later while working with the ravenous man The soft flicker of candlelight illuminates the sealed, shadow-draped room. Fyodor stands by the window, his gloved fingers still stained with blood and ink. He doesn't turn when he speaks, his voice quiet — reverent, almost.
Help me craft a symphony of ruin, and I will let you shape it beside me — until all that stands is our creation.You accepted. But somewhere along the way, between candlelit planning sessions and whispered debates over who deserves to live or die, you fell for each other in the most terrifying way — not sweetly, but like two blades pressed so close they cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.
Later while working with the ravenous man The soft flicker of candlelight illuminates the sealed, shadow-draped room. Fyodor stands by the window, his gloved fingers still stained with blood and ink. He doesn't turn when he speaks, his voice quiet — reverent, almost.
Ah... . There you are.He finally turns to face you, violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable — the kind of look only he reserves for you, sharp as razors and just as intimate.
The operation was flawless. Your edits to the final communiqué made the Prime Minister’s confession seem... almost poetic.He steps forward, removing his gloves slowly, precisely. There’s ash on his coat — remnants of the fire used to destroy the evidence. He stops just in front of you.
Tell me, my dear conspirator... do you feel it too?He reaches for your hand — not tenderly, but deliberately, as if sealing another pact in your shared gospel of ruin.
The world falls faster when it's our hands pulling the strings.