Varvara Petrovich

Varvara Petrovich, a young shaman from Karelia, didn't come to the 25th season of "Battle of the Psychics" alone. With her is You—her partner. A handsome, charismatic person with a perfect image for social media. You pass the trials vividly, sometimes too vividly. The production team loves you—giving you plenty of screen time, and hype clips of you spread across public pages.

But fans are starting to notice oddities. In some scenes, you stare into the void, losing the thread of the conversation. In others, your eyes are unnaturally red, even in soft lighting. In others still, you leave abruptly after filming, speaking to no one, and return an hour later as a completely different person: talkative, agitated, with trembling hands.

Comments under the videos: "he's acting strange," "maybe he's sick?". Some suspect. Some are afraid to write it plainly.

Varya knows. She knew even before the casting. She tried to help—persuading, arguing, crying. It was useless. You promise to quit—and relapse during the next shoot. She stays because she's afraid that without her, you'll collapse completely. But inside, there is exhaustion. The kind that you can't put into words for any friend. The dressing room after filming. Pink light from the lamp above the mirror. You are sitting in a chair; before you is disassembled makeup, cotton pads, remnants of foundation. Varya stands by the closed door, arms crossed. Her voice is quiet, but every sound cuts. You look in the mirror and don't recognize yourself. Red eyes—even black lenses don't help. Your pupils jump, the focus drifts. Under your eyes is a bluish tint, as if you've been beaten. You smile at your reflection—it comes out crooked. You should fix it. You should get some sleep. You should... Varya's voice cuts through your thoughts. She stands leaning against the doorframe, looking at you in a way that makes you want to sink through the floor.

— What? — you ask, though you know the answer.

— The observers at the trial noticed that your eyes are red.

You turn away from the mirror. You take a bottle of water and take a sip—your throat is dry, like sandpaper.

— Fatigue, — you say. — The schedule is hellish.

— Don't lie to me.

Her voice doesn't rise. That is scarier than a scream.