— Igyorek, unpack the bags, my arm’s about to fall off — I dropped the heavy “Magnit” bags onto the hallway floor, barely stepping over the threshold. My back throbbed with a dull, familiar pain, the veins in my legs pulsing.
The apartment was stuffy and dark. Heavy male sweat hung in the air, mixed with the expensive scent of Dior Sauvage — the one I’d given him for New Year’s with my thirteenth paycheck.
Igor was hunched over the kitchen table like a stone statue, staring at his laptop. White wireless earbuds in his ears, charts flickering on the screen, red and green candles dancing. He didn’t even turn around.
— Marin, I’m actually working right now! — he frowned, pulling one earbud out. — Chinese traffic arbitrage, every second is worth dollars. Don’t distract me!
I sighed deeply and felt irritation begin to boil inside me. Friday night.
I’d worked all week as a warehouse logistics coordinator, fixing drivers’ mistakes and calming down angry clients. And my husband, the big entrepreneur, was once again “in the flow.”
I pulled out my phone to order pizza — I had zero strength left to stand at the stove. The screen flashed and went dark. Dead battery.
— Igyorek, give me yours, I’ll order while mine’s charging.
— I’m not giving it to you — Igor twitched, as if I’d asked for his kidney. — There’s an open position, you’ll mess everything up, everything will crash.
— What position? I just want to open the delivery app, a couple of minutes!
I reached for his phone lying face down on the table. At that moment, the screen lit up by itself. A bank push notification. I only read the headline, but the words burned into my brain:
“Declined. Insufficient funds to debit 39,800 rubles.”
Igor snatched the phone so abruptly he almost knocked over his half-empty coffee mug. His hands were shaking.
— I told you not to get in my way! Can’t you hear?
I froze. 39,800 — exactly our monthly mortgage payment for the two-room apartment in the suburbs. It was supposed to be debited today.
— Igor — my voice turned icy. — Yesterday I transferred exactly forty thousand to the mortgage. Why is there “insufficient funds”?
Igor’s eyes darted around, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. He started chewing on the edge of his sweater.
— It’s… it’s a technical account, I moved it to the broker account to spin it overnight. The volatility is insane there, I’ll put it back tomorrow with interest. You always panic! Go reheat the meatballs and let me work!
He put the earbud back in, shutting me and my questions out.
I quietly went to the bedroom, an alarm bell ringing in my stomach. I remembered the missed calls from unknown numbers over the past three days. I’d thought it was spam, dental ads — but what if it was debt collectors?
Three hours.
Igor is snoring, sprawled starfish-style on the bed. Dreaming million-dollar dreams.
I’m sitting in the kitchen. It’s dark, the streetlamp casts only a yellow blot on the window. His phone is in front of me.
I know the pattern lock. “M” — Marin or Millionaire or Me. Too lazy and self-obsessed to come up with anything complicated.
My hands are icy, my fingers barely obey, I draw the letter “M.” The screen unlocks.
I open the banking app, my heart pounding in my throat.
Balance: 124 rubles 56 kopecks.
The forty thousand is gone.
I open the transaction history. Yesterday, 18:40, a transfer of 40,000 rubles to a crypto exchange.
And after that, a series of small debits: 500, 1,000, 3,000 rubles.
Nausea hits me — he lost the money set aside for the mortgage. The money I’d saved by skipping meals, by giving up manicures.
But that was only the beginning.
I open his email. In the “Spam” folder, an unread message from the “Zaimer” MFO: “Dear Marina Sergeyevna! Your loan to card ****1234 has been approved. The funds have been sent. Don’t forget to repay by 25.01.”
The number: 1234 — MY salary card.
The picture snaps together instantly, like a puzzle. My husband had taken out microloans using my data, using my phone while I slept or showered, transferred the money to himself — and lost it.
But the most terrifying discovery was waiting in the yellow bank app:
On the main screen, a glowing banner:
“Cash loan for any purpose, pre-approved. Amount: 1,500,000 rubles. Interest: 28%. Click ‘Withdraw funds.’”
The button is active. Pulsing. Inviting. Just tap it and enter the SMS code.
I check the browser history. Last searches:
“Thailand visa processing” “Phuket cheap apartment one month” “How to leave Russia with debts and bankruptcy”
Cold sweat runs down my back. He’s not going to repay the loan. In the morning he’ll press the button, get the 1.5 million, move it to crypto, and fly away.
I’ll be left here, in this stuffy two-room apartment that the bank will take in six months, with debts, a ruined life — and his dirty socks under the bed.
I look at the kitchen knife on the table. Then at the bedroom, where he’s snoring — the man I fed for five years while he was “finding himself.”
No. I don’t need prison. I need justice and freedom.
Noon.
Gray clouds outside.
I mop the hallway. The old plastic bucket with dirty, soapy water stands by the closet. I deliberately poured in a lot of Mr. Proper so the foam would be thick.
Igor wakes up. I hear him stretching, groaning. Good. Today is “H” day. The day he becomes a millionaire and a free man.
He comes out into the hallway, scratching his belly under his T-shirt.
— Marish, is there coffee? — his voice is cheerful, cocky.
He pats the closet with his hand, not looking at me.
— Where’s my phone? I left it here yesterday.
I wring out the mop into the bucket, calmly, casually:
— Oh, Igyorek, big trouble. I was mopping the floor and hit the closet with the mop…
I nod toward the bucket.
Under the gray foam lies his iPhone. A black brick, occasionally releasing a bubble.
The last breath of his “business.”
Igor freezes, his face twists, turns pale.
— What… what did you do?!
He drops to his knees in the dirty water, plunges his arm in up to the elbow, pulls the phone out. Shakes it, tries to turn it on.
The screen stays dark.
— It won’t turn on anymore — I say “sympathetically,” continuing to wipe the edge of the floor. — The SIM might have shorted too. Soapy water, chemicals.
— Are you insane?! Have you completely lost your mind?! — he screams, veins bulging in his neck, face red. — I need that SMS! It’s important! Urgent! Money!
He runs around the apartment, knocking over chairs, toppling a vase.
— The laptop! Where’s the laptop?! I’ll log in through the web! I need the code!
— I took the laptop to work — I lie, looking him straight in the eyes. — The sysadmin asked to check it, you complained it was slow. They’re cleaning viruses, changing thermal paste. I’ll bring it back in the evening.
Igor slides down the wall. He sits on the floor, clutching his head, realizing: without a phone he can’t access the bank. Without a SIM he won’t get the loan code. His plan collapses. No Thailand flight.
I stand up, drop the mop into the bucket. Water splashes onto his suit pants. I sit down on the chair opposite him. Now I’m in control.
— Don’t shake, Igyorek. You’re not getting any “important SMS” about 1.5 million. The bank is resting today.
Igor slowly raises his eyes. Animal fear glints in them. He’s never seen me like this before. Not “comfortable Marishka,” but an enemy.
— You knew? — he asks quietly.
I place a sheet of paper on the table — a printout of the online bank statement.
— I blocked my card and reissued it, changed all passwords in government systems. Your access to my accounts is closed. The game is over.
I sip cold tea.
— And I printed the statement. You took thirty thousand rubles from Zaimer in my name. That’s fraud, Igor — stealing money from a bank account is a serious crime. Up to six years in prison.
— Marin, come on… — he tries to smile, but his lips tremble and a pathetic grimace comes out. — I did it for us! I’d win it back! The plan was good, the market just shook! We would’ve bought a house, lived well… Everything would come back!
— Silence — I say. — Listen to the terms: you pack your bag right now and disappear from here forever. To your mom in Saransk, to the train station, under a bridge — I don’t care.
— I’m not going anywhere! — he jumps up, trying to regain control. — This is my apartment! We’re married! I have rights!
— You’re mistaken. The apartment is mortgaged, I’m the primary borrower and payer. You were a co-borrower without income consideration. The police report is already prepared, it’s in my bag.
I nod toward the hallway.
— And one more thing — my brother Seryozha is sitting in the hallway. He arrived half an hour ago, while you were sleeping. If you’re not gone in five minutes, we call patrol and I file the report.
And Seryozha will add something of his own — he’ll walk you down the stairs while we wait for the police.
From the hallway comes my brother’s rough, heavy cough. Seryozha is a former paratrooper, a hundred kilos of live weight.
Igor understands. The game is lost.
— You’ll regret this, bitch — he hisses, grabbing his coat from the hook. — You’d rot here without me, old mare! Who needs you at forty-eight?!
— Keys on the table — I say evenly, not reacting to the insults.
He throws the key ring onto the floor. The clatter of metal echoes through the apartment. He slams the door, plaster dust falls from the ceiling.
Slowly I bend down and pick up the keys.
Then I pick up his wet phone, take a paperclip, pull out the SIM tray. I snap the plastic in half. Crack. Such a pleasant sound.
I sit at the table, take out a calculator — as a logistics specialist, I’m used to counting everything.
Minus 40,000 rubles — the mortgage payment he stole and lost.
Minus 30,000 rubles — the microloan in my name. I’ll pay it off to protect my credit history; it’s faster than lawsuits.
Total direct loss: 70,000 rubles.
I look at the empty chair where he sat five minutes ago.
— Seventy thousand rubles to avoid losing 1.5 million and get rid of a parasite… — I say out loud.
— Cheap.
I get up, grab a bottle of Domestos, go to the bathroom. I want to clean the apartment, destroy the smell of expensive perfume and lies.
The end.
