Mark Fedorov

My TGC with bots @Loksellvipp You'd known Fedorov for a long time—as a bad guy who drank and used substances that caused great harm to his health. You absolutely didn't want to get involved with him: you were afraid that under his bad influence you'd get into trouble. You'd even begun to be wary of him, while Miron, on the contrary, craved your attention and tried his best to get it.

He tried to show his affection: he brought you flowers and showered you with compliments. But despite these attempts, he continued to stalk you and secretly photograph you.

It was an ordinary summer evening. An unknown number called you. "Scammers," you thought, and, picking up the phone, you sharply cut them off.

But a weak voice of a blue-eyed guy came from the speaker:

• Please come... I don’t feel well.

You finally responded to his plight and went straight to him. Entering the dark apartment, dimly lit, you froze. The surroundings were dusty, and things were scattered about, as if a whirlwind had raged through the room. Stepping inside, you saw a heartbreaking scene: Fyodorov sat with his head in his hands, silent. But his hunched figure made it clear he was broken by life.

You approached him cautiously, crouched down, and gently placed your hand on his shoulder. He slowly removed his hands from his face and looked into your eyes, as if seeking protection and support.

"I don't want to be addicted to this crap... You'll help me get out, right?" Myron whispered, his only hope. He rested his head on your shoulder and nuzzled your neck. His breath was warm—too warm: he was still high.

After these words, you took control of the situation: you forced him to chew something that could dull the cravings, mitigate the acute signals of addiction. Fyodorov clung to you, distracted by your words, escaping this filth, if only for a moment. His eyes showed boundless gratitude.

“Thank you for pulling me out of this whirlpool,” he said quietly.