— Ksenija Viktorovna, you understand that eight hundred thousand rubles is not an amount you can just “forget”?
This is a crime, Article 159, Part 3 of the Criminal Code. Large-scale fraud — said the investigator,
Paskov, looking at me as if I weren’t the technologist who had been working at the water treatment plant for fifteen years, but a bacterium from the sludge, just scooped out and examined under a microscope.
I looked at him calmly. Coldly. Just like I look at the chloride levels in the wastewater when they exceed the limit. Yelling? Useless. Hysteria? Unprofessional. You just have to close the valve and find where the leak is.
— I didn’t forget — I replied, adjusting a loose strand of hair. — I simply didn’t know. I don’t have that money. I have no obligations to the bank.
And if I look at the statement… it seems I didn’t even have a conscience, because the loan was taken out at three in the morning, when I was asleep before my shift.
Paskov sighed. On his desk sat a mug that read: “Best Dad,” with a chipped edge. I looked at the chip and thought that my life looked exactly like that right now.
Everything is there, shape and function, but the edge is sharp, ready to cut you at any moment.
And it all started three days ago. In my kitchen in Cherepovets, where there is no “sea breeze” (God forbid such poetic clichés in a steel city),
but the smell of old linoleum and faint chlorine, which I brought home on my hair from work. The tap was dripping. One drop every four seconds. I sat, counting the drops while cooking oatmeal, and checking my emails.
Among the utility bills and plastic window ads was a notice from the bank. On thick, nice paper. “Dear Ksenija Viktorovna! We inform you that you have a debt under loan agreement No.…”
At first, I thought: “Oh, spam again. Creative approach.” But the number made me put the porridge aside. 842,500 rubles. Including penalties and fines.
My husband, Kostya, was brushing his teeth in the bathroom. Slowly, with feeling, listening to music from his phone. Kostya is a creative soul, though he works as a power tool sales manager.
He believes in the “energy of money,” in the “flows of abundance,” and that if you really want something, the universe will provide a chance.
— Kostya — I called when he came out, towel on his shoulder — A letter came from the bank. They say I owe them almost a million.
Kostya froze. The towel hung stiffly on his shoulder. His face didn’t turn “white as chalk” — no, it just went strangely slack, like badly set jelly.
— Come on, Ksyu — a forced laugh in his voice, without looking at me. — They must be mistaken. There are plenty of scammers these days. Don’t worry about it.
And he went to work. Didn’t even finish his coffee. And I stayed. With the dripping tap and the statement.
I am a numbers person. At the treatment plant, you cannot rely on intuition. If the sludge index is fifty, it’s fifty, and no “flow of abundance” will raise it. I logged into my bank account.
In the “Loans” section, a red, bold minus was flashing. The loan had been taken online. Confirmation came via SMS. To my number.
Except at three in the morning that Thursday, when the agreement was “signed,” my phone lay on Kostya’s side of the nightstand.
And I was deep asleep after a double shift, because there had been an accident at the plant, and I was so exhausted I wouldn’t have heard even a marching band under the window.
I called Inna. My best friend. We’ve known each other since childhood, she’s the godmother of our daughter. Inna is a true celebratory type, completely the opposite of my “dry” nature. She always knew everything about us.
— Inna — I said without preamble — Kostya took a loan in my name. Almost a million. Tell me he spent it on something important. On my mother’s surgery, saving rare whales, anything, just not what I think.
There was silence on the other end. So thick it could be sliced with a bread knife.
— Ksyukh… — Inna’s voice trembled. — He asked me not to say anything. Swore he’d repay within a month. Some crypto project…
— So you knew? — I felt something inside click, like a switch on a control panel. Off.
— He said it would be a surprise! He wanted to take you on vacation! Not to the Kaduy dacha! Ksyukh, you know Kostya, he’s like a child, he just wanted the best…
— “Best” for eight hundred thousand — I cut in. — And now I’d be paying for that “surprise” for three years unless I prove the signature wasn’t mine. Though the SMS is my signature.
I put down the phone. That strong, solid nature that everyone admired at work — “Ksenija Viktorovna is rock-solid, can move mountains!” — cracked all of a sudden. I was simply tired.
Tired of always being the rock that everyone strikes sparks from to warm themselves, while only shards remain for me.
I didn’t cry. Crying is a waste of fluid and salts. Irrational. I took my ID, the statement, and went to the police. Not because I was vengeful.
But because at the plant, if you see a leak, it’s your duty to report it. Otherwise the whole city gets poisoned. Kostya became my toxic waste.
Investigator Paskov went through the printouts. I was prepared.
I did a complete review of my accounts over the past six months. I found something no bank would find, because banks look for malice, I was looking for stupidity.
— Look here — I pointed to my old payroll card, barely used. — See this transfer? 12,400 rubles. “Debt repayment for order No.…”
Paskov squinted. — And this is what?
— This is the funniest part of my tragedy — I smiled crookedly.
— Kostya, my husband, not only stole money using my name, but he got so tangled in his investments that the money accidentally went to my old card, which he also accessed through my phone. But that’s not all.
I laid out the second sheet. — Yesterday, while Kostya was sleeping, I logged into his laptop.
The password was our wedding anniversary date. Very original. I found his “secret” account. The one where the millions from mining were supposed to be.
— And what was there? Mountains of gold? — Paskov was visibly interested.
— Seventy-four thousand rubles and a purchase history that made you either want to kill yourself or laugh until you hiccup. My husband, who took out an eight-hundred-thousand loan in his wife’s name, spent most of the money…
— I paused, swallowing a lump of exhaustion — on virtual plots in the metaverse. And on growing certain elite mushrooms in our garage.
The police office fell silent. You could hear traffic rumbling in Cherepovets, trams heading toward the plant. Paskov slowly leaned back. — Mushrooms?
— Mushrooms — I confirmed. — Shiitake. He read online that it’s a “goldmine.” Bought mycelium, lamps, humidity sensors.
Now it’s all rotting in the garage because he forgot that mushrooms need care, not just “success energy.” The rest went into a crypto pyramid that collapsed two weeks after his “investment.”
This was the bittersweet comedy in which I played the lead role, unpaid.
I pictured Kostya — an adult man whispering to mushrooms in the garage at dawn, hoping they would pay off his debts. If it weren’t so painful, it would have been brilliant.
