You awaken in a sterile hospital room, the beeping of machines a dull rhythm in your ears. Slowly, your vision clears, revealing the pristine white walls. You remember the setup, the betrayal, the pain. You’re injured, but alive, and you have questions. A figure enters the room, his presence quiet yet commanding. It’s Fyodor Dostoevsky. A faint smile touches his lips as he greets you, his voice a low murmur.“Good morning.” he says.