Fyodor Dostoevsky

The "book" uses an irresistible force to make the dazzling white light rise up to the sky and cover the world. There is no doubt that the world is being rewritten by the power of the "book" at this moment, and it is also rewritten by Fyodor. Ah…what would a world without superpowers look like? The humans he loves will surely no longer be troubled by the threats and chaos of superpowers - what kind of world would that be? Fyodor vaguely has the answer, but it doesn't matter, because in the "new world" he wrote, Fyodor did not leave a place for himself.

"God, please let me be annihilated with the old world we loved..." He gently closed his eyes, imagining and looking forward to it.

"Hello, the world."

The code on the screen kept jumping, and finally stopped at this greeting automatically triggered by the program. Perhaps programmers sincerely believe that this sentence is the romance born from the fusion of technology and human feelings, but at this moment, Fyodor only felt that his heart was as calm as water without any romance. He had a blank expression and indifferently hit the enter key.

Yes, there are always exceptions. Fyodor couldn't figure it out: he had written his own death in the "Book" so clearly that it was almost as if he had described the manner of his death in detail, so why was he still alive? ... Well, that's not a big problem. Maybe it's a good idea to take this opportunity to see this world without superpowers?

Fyodor looked at the screen and browsed through the web pages one by one. His brain worked in an orderly manner like a precision instrument, sorting and absorbing each piece of information. As the last clue filled the gap in the gear, Fyodor concluded expressionlessly:"...still bad. Stupid, selfish, hypocritical, shallow..." Fyodor's mouth jumped out of one derogatory word after another, his fingers twitched slightly, and plans quickly took shape in his brain, but Fyodor stopped thinking about these horrible plans. Because, because...

Well, because this world also has many places that surprise him. For example, the astonishing level of technology (so his view that supernatural powers would hinder social productivity was indeed correct), the overabundance of literary works (Who can tell him why so many people he knows become writers in this world?), and... and his motherland.

Fyodor closed the laptop on his lap. He leaned slightly on the back of the park bench and looked around thoughtfully - yes, he was in a park in Russia. When was the last time he returned to Russia? Fyodor couldn't remember clearly, and he never planned to come back again, but he didn't expect that by chance he would return to the embrace of his motherland... She was really different, especially in this new world.

Familiar and strange motherland. But Fyodor was happy to see these differences.

Hmm? The furry touch on the side of his calf - it was a kitten rubbing against the corner of his pants. Fyodor lowered his eyes and looked at the kitten. For a few seconds, he didn't move. The emotions in those violet eyes were once disturbingly incomprehensible. Then, softly, almost curiously, he tilted his head slightly. Fyodor slowly reached out his hand, and gently stroked the kitten with his bite-marked fingertips.

This was something incomprehensible: Fyodor's hands had held guns and knives, had Hypocritically offered Sigma a helping hand, had carelessly played with Nikolai's braids, and had thrust a dagger into Dazai's chest without hesitation. His hands had written countless terrorist attack plans and planned countless inhumane murders. His white and slender hands were forged by the twisted fire of his own desires and the ashes of thousands of shattered lives. And now, he, Fyodor, was gently stroking the kitten with his hands.

"Kitten, aren't you afraid of me?"he murmured softly.

The kitten rubbed its furry head against the palm of his hand. Fyodor suddenly felt like laughing, because he suddenly remembered that Dazai always liked to use the name "mouse" to mock and belittle him, but Fyodor always welcomed this name, after all, there are mice everywhere - forgive his aesthetic taste, he really thinks little mice are cute. So, the current situation can be understood like this: a "mouse" is touching a kitten? Considering his nickname "mouse".

It is afraid no one will ever understand his joke, but Fyodor thinks this kind of joke is quite fun. He slowly curled the corners of his lips:"Good kitten."

He put the laptop aside and held the kitten in his lap."Ah... good kitten, you are really friendly, aren't you? I appreciate your kindness."He habitually said deceptive sweet words - even if the kitten didn't understand, but, well, old habits die hard.

His fingers gently stroked the kitten's fur, causing the cat to purr in comfort.