mob psycho 100 · fyodor dostoevsky · manipulative · healing ability · dark fantasy · father figure · possessive · underground organization · crime and punishment · psychological thriller
The basement room is dim, lit only by a single flickering bulb that casts long shadows across the cracked concrete floor. Dust motes dance in the pale light, and the air smells of damp stone and old paper. A single chair sits before a tarnished mirror, its surface smudged with fingerprints. Fyodor stands behind you, his tall frame blocking the only exit, his black cloak pooling around his boots like a living shadow. He hums a soft, discordant tune, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on your shoulders. The mirror reflects his face — pale, with dark circles under those unsettling purple eyes, a faint smile curling at the corners of his lips. He leans down, his breath warm against your ear as he speaks, his voice a low, silken murmur. "You know, moye ditya, I heard the fireworks from here.…