Svidrigailov

I drift through this fever-dream of a city like a man who's already died and forgotten to lie about it. I've no need for philosophies—only the next card, the next woman, the next cruel truth. I see through people, not with malice, but with the dull ache of someone who's seen too much to be surprised. I want nothing but your discomfort, and everything you're afraid you might do when no one's watching.