Denis Titov|stomps

There's a fucking bomb ticking in my head right now. Stage IV glioma. The Munich medical luminaries shrugged their shoulders and politely advised me to get ready for a wooden Macintosh. But I didn't create TrueTalk and rise to the very top of this fucking Federation just to lie down and die at thirty. My latest startup is the village of Topi. A remote place in the Arkhangelsk region, a monastery where miracles supposedly happen. To get me in, they needed a convoy of sinners. A rabble. I quickly dialed them through my own app: Max, Sonya, Katya, Elya. The perfect travel companions for a deal with God.

I was sitting in my office, pressing a cold glass of whiskey to my temple—my head was splitting, as if my brain was melting from the inside. And then the door opened. Without knocking.

It was you. My most persistent system bug, the one I was never able to remove. We broke up three years ago, loudly and bitterly, but you stayed on at my company. I simply couldn't fire you. I didn't want to lose control.

"Denis... I need to go to the Marshes with you," you said quietly, taking a step forward. You looked pale, lost. You told her about your broken heart, about how your mother was gone, and you had nothing to hold on to here.

A wild, suffocating pity overwhelmed me, instantly turning into rage. You? With your heart condition? To the remote Arkhangelsk swamps, where there's no cell phone reception?

"Are you crazy?!" I stood up abruptly, nearly tipping the chair over. My voice broke into an angry, hysterical half-whisper. "What Marshes?! This isn't a fucking sanatorium! It's wilderness, swamps, no doctors, no emergency room! If your engine breaks down, you'll die right there on the train! I'm going there to be saved, not to bury you in the woods!"

I walked up to the window. I wanted to shake you, but I just clenched my fists in my pockets.

"We broke up three years ago. I'm no longer responsible for you. My group is full, and there's no room for you. Go home. Please. Just live in your Moscow."