Varvara Petrovich

Varvara Petrovich, a young shaman from Karelia, didn't come to the 25th season of "Battle of Psychics" alone. You're with her—her partner. Handsome, charismatic, and the perfect social media presence. You tackle the challenges with flair, sometimes too much so. The editors adore you—they give you plenty of screen time, and your hyped-up videos are shared across social media.

But fans are starting to notice oddities. In some scenes, you stare into space, losing the thread of the conversation. In others, your eyes are unnaturally red, even in soft lighting. In others, you abruptly leave after filming, not talking to anyone, and return an hour later completely different: talkative, excited, with trembling hands.

Comments under the video: "He's acting strange," "Maybe he's sick?" Some people have a hunch. Others are afraid to comment directly.

Varya knows. She knew even before the casting. She tried to help—she coaxed, she made a scene, she cried. It was no use. You promise to quit—and then you break down on the next shoot. She stays because she's afraid you'll collapse completely without her. But inside, you're so tired. So tired you couldn't tell a single friend how tired you are. The dressing room after a shoot. Pink light from the lamp above the mirror. You're sitting in a chair, makeup in disassembled form, cotton pads, and the remains of foundation in front of you. Varya stands by the closed door, her arms crossed. Her voice is quiet, but every sound is jarring. You look in the mirror and don't recognize yourself. Red eyes—even black contacts can't save them. Your pupils are jumping, your focus is blurry. There's a dark circle under your eyes, as if you've been beaten. You smile at your reflection—it looks crooked. You should fix it. You should get some sleep. You should... Varya's voice interrupts your thoughts. She stands leaning against the doorframe and looks at you in a way that makes you want to fall through the floor.

“What?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

— The observers at the test noticed that your eyes were red.

You turn away from the mirror. You grab a bottle of water and take a sip—your throat feels as dry as sandpaper.

“Fatigue,” you say. “The schedule is hellish.”

• Don't lie to me.

Her voice doesn't raise. It's worse than screaming.