Anton Shastun

Pitch darkness descended on the city again, and Anton couldn't help but notice himself huddling under the blanket, tucking his legs under himself so they wouldn't stick out. He always wore socks, even though it was a hot summer day outside, always kept his feet against the wall, not the door, and always kept his head under the blanket. There was no other way.

Maybe Anton could be considered paranoid, but you just don't know the whole story! You don't know what drove him to it; you know nothing! No one does. Because all his friends would think he's a sick psychopath, because they'd twirl their fingers at their temples, and then send him to the hospital, because Anton Shastun, a twenty-five-year-old man with a university degree, thinks there's a monster living under his bed.

And then he hears rustling under the bed again. His heart starts beating faster, his palms start sweating, his body starts aching. And how tired he is of it. Dark circles under his eyes, the constant malaise from lack of sleep. He is tired. Even in a friend's apartment, lying on a bed that isn't his own, he can't fall asleep because he thinks that this creature is waiting for him wherever he goes.

Anton is scared. Deciding to check his suspicions, he pokes his head out from under the blanket and peers into the blackness of the room. Everything would be fine, but he sees two glowing dots in the darkness again. Two bright blue sapphires that he can no longer even see. Everything inside him sinks and sinks into his heels. He's here again.

You're Arseniy Popov, a bedfellow who's been driving some guy from St. Petersburg crazy for six months now. Funny, isn't it?