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  The problem had sorted itself out naturally. One day we went out, leaving both animals at home. Boris’ litter box was on the balcony, so we left the balcony door open.

  No idea how it happened — but somehow the little Chihuahua managed to kill himself by falling to his death from our eighth floor. We found his broken body on the ground under the balcony. Yanna was heartbroken. I borrowed a toy shovel from some kids next door and buried Boy on an empty lot behind the row of communal garages.

  Since then, Yanna hated Boris with abandon, refusing to do anything for her. Feeding and cleaning up after her was entirely my responsibility.

  The cat must have noticed I was awake. She meowed, demanding attention. I climbed out of bed and stretched. My joints screeched their protest. Every muscle in my body hurt after my morning paper run.

  The memory of the weird morning kicked back in. I struggled, unable to tell reality from the dream I’d just had.

  I picked up Boris and stared hard into her feline eyes.

  Yes!

  Boris. A female cat

  Age: 9

  Current status: pet

  Owner: Philip Panfilov

  Wait a sec, what about her level? And social status? That didn’t make sense.

  I tried to focus harder, expecting the message to unravel, but Boris struggled free from my grip, gave a hearty shake and began grooming herself, casting offended glances in my direction.

  Finally, something must have clicked in the mysterious game system, adding another line to my pet’s stats,

  Relationship: Adoration 10/10

  Adoration? No way!

  My lips stretched in a happy grin. I jumped off the bed. “Boris, I love you too!”

  It hadn’t been a dream, after all. My Reputation with Boris was all maxed-out. How awesome was that?

  I turned the TV on and switched it to a music channel, then picked up Boris and waltzed my way into the kitchen.

  I measured out a generous helping of her dinner and went into the bathroom to make myself presentable. This wasn’t a game, Mr. Panfilov. People actually washed here.

  I took a shower, brushed my teeth, had a shave, wiped myself dry, put some clean underwear on, then walked back into the kitchen.

  I opened the fridge and studied its contents. I needed to decide what to make for dinner. We still had one raw chicken drumstick left, a few potatoes and a bunch of other veg. I might make some chicken soup. That way there’d be some left for tomorrow, as well. Time to do some shopping, really.

  I put the chicken in a pot, added some water and set it on the stove just as the kettle began to boil. I spooned a generous dose of instant coffee into a mug, added some sugar, stirred it, then walked out onto the balcony.

  By then, Boris had already finished her dinner and decided to keep me company.

  I drank my coffee, smoking and thinking. The familiar system message informed me of the nicotine damage received. Still, my Vitality numbers seemed to have improved somewhat. It must have had something to do with getting a bit more sleep and the fact that my body must have gotten rid of some of the last day’s alcohol. And still my Vitality bar wasn’t full but hovering at 73%.

  What was happening to me? Why? I really needed to find out what was going on. I had to work this crazy system out.

  I came up with several theories but none seemed convincing enough. Undecided, I spent some time experimenting, trying to locate my own stats. That would have given me some starting point.

  Finally I noticed a tiny little icon almost out of view, in the top right corner of my field of vision. Risking to dislocate my eyeballs, I somehow reached for it, locking it with my screwed gaze.

  It worked. Another icon appeared promptly next to it.

  The first one seemed to list my buffs. Or debuffs, rather. It depicted a large red letter N enveloped in clouds of smoke.

  A countdown above the first icon kept clocking down the seconds,

  116:31... 116:30... 116:29...

  A prompt hovered into view,

  Nicotine Saturation

  Your body is saturated with nicotine. Your metabolism is accelerated 15%.

  Warning! Your blood contains high levels of carbon monoxide!

  +3 to Satisfaction

  +2% to Vigor

  -1 to Stamina

  -1 to Intellect

  -1 to Perception

  The second icon depicted a black letter C. It reported a caffeine buff received. It offered +2 to Satisfaction and +10 to Metabolism while slightly improving Vigor, Focus and Reaction Times.

  The problem was, I had nothing to compare those numbers with. How much Stamina did I have in total? Because if it was 100, then -1 pt. wasn’t a big deal. But if it was 10, then my smoking habit did a lot of damage to my stats!

  I returned to the kitchen deep in thought and began peeling some potatoes while the chicken was still cooking. I must have been mad all those years. Who in their sane mind would deliberately inflict a permanent debuff on themselves? Because that’s what I was doing with all that smoking.

  I peeled the potatoes, finished my coffee and began cleaning the place.

  It would probably be better not to tell Yanna anything... at least for the time being.

  Chapter Five. Signs of Life

  “Life always bursts the boundaries of formulas. Defeat may prove to have been the only path to resurrection, despite its ugliness.”

  Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Flight to Arras

  I STILL HAD some time before Yanna came home. The soup had been made. I’d cleaned the place, taken out the trash and started a load of washing. House chores out of the way, I could finally do some work.

  Provided I had some.

  A housemaker earning a pittance and sponging off a wife eight years his junior... it felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t as if it had never bothered me before — but before, I’d somehow managed to suppress the voice of my conscience. I was an artist — a writer. Our clan was #2 on the server! And even if you did compare my and Yanna’s earnings, you’d see that I’d always managed to earn slightly more than she did. Not much but still.

  For some reason, today it failed to reassure me. What was I like? Threadbare jeans, faded T-shirts, my only pair of sneakers falling apart... How was Yanna supposed to feel, having chosen to spend the best years of her life with me?

  I sat down to check my computer. My game client was bursting with messages from my clanmates. Still, I had more important things to do.

  I checked my inbox, silently praying for new job offers. I scrolled through a hundred-plus letters which had accumulated over the last two days, deleting any potential spam without reading. Nothing I could use. Shame.

  That was weird. Only a few hours ago, the absence of job offers would have been good news: it meant I could log back into the game with a clear conscience. And now I felt disappointed for some reason.

  I decided to check a few freelance websites for any private messages. Nothing. No one seemed to be tempted by my wide range of services including “the writing of concise and eloquent website articles, press releases, speeches, reports and promotional materials”. Might they have been put off by my rather high rates?

  I chuckled. I was an idiot, really. I used to justify my high rates by the fact that I was an accomplished author: not a college student but someone with a life’s wealth of experience behind him. While in fact I’d simply been unwilling to do the work, too wary of putting in the actual effort. Because accepting a job would mean I might have to work hard, writing, rewriting and editing my hard-gained words time and time again.

  Which was admittedly boring. Also, I had the game to play. Still, today I somehow wished I hadn’t.

  I picked up my cell phone and scrolled through the contacts. One of those people just might have an assignment for me to do.

  I finally dialed Ivan. He worked in an advertising company which sometimes hired me to write a blog post or something. Faking cheerfulness, I asked him if they had anything for me, by any chance.
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  “I don’t think so,” he replied unenthusiastically. “We don’t have any clients ourselves at the moment. Wretched recession. We’ll keep you posted. Thanks for staying in touch.”

  Sure. In recession times, everyone had to cut corners. And the likes of me were the first to get the boot.

  The air in the room was still rife with my badly-digested ambitions which had appeared so alluring ten years ago. By now though they’d almost completed their full circle through my rich psyche and were about to reveal themselves to the world as a perfect pile of complete garbage.

  And Yanna would be the first to witness its arrival.

  I’d scrolled through the entire contacts list without calling anyone. I simply hadn’t dared. I was too scared of more rejections. Also, I hated making other people feel uncomfortable by having to say “no” to me.

  I spent the next hour updating my job profiles. I chose some of my best work and uploaded it to my portfolios making sure it looked attractive. The only things I now mentioned in my profile were experience and my ability to work under pressure to meet urgent deadlines. You get this sort of skill by doing hardcore raids.

  That got me thinking. Freelancing was all well and good — but should I be thinking of getting a regular job, maybe? I could try living a normal life for a change. Waking up at the same time as Yanna, having breakfast together, then leaving the house, driving to work in some office or other, then heading back home in the evening with a clear conscience...

  A regular paycheck might help me get back on my feet and earn some self-respect. I might even become friends with my workmates. So basically, why not?

  I rummaged through a junk heap of ancient files until I unearthed my old CV. I updated it a bit, adding a new mug shot and a fresh portfolio, then Googled an employment website and signed up.

  I could give the game a miss for a while. Raids could wait. Real-life leveling was admittedly fun.

  With that out of the way, I walked out onto the balcony and lit another cigarette, habitually closing a new debuff message.

  My lips stretched in a smile. I was more than pleased with myself and my decision.

  The setting sun had colored the horizon purple. The yard below echoed with children’s voices and the booming sounds of a 1992 disco hit from someone’s window. A flock of pigeons fussed below.

  The sound of breaking glass and Yagoza’s furious cussing disrupted the bucolic atmosphere. One of his subordinates had just dropped a bagful of booze on the tarmac.

  I heard the key turn in the door. Yanna was back. I put out the unfinished cigarette and went back in to greet her.

  She walked through the front door loaded down with shopping bags. She must have done the shopping on her way home from work.

  How embarrassing. I took the bags from her and gave her a hearty kiss. She answered it unenthusiastically.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi there. What’s up? What’s with the shaving? Why aren’t you-” she cut herself short.

  I knew what she meant. Normally, whenever she came home, I was either asleep or sitting behind my computer wearing a pair of headphones.

  I shrugged. “It’s just that... I missed you.”

  I took the bags into the kitchen and began putting the shopping away. I couldn’t stop thinking of what I’d just read on the name tag hovering above her head,

  Yannina “Yanna” Orlova

  Age: 24

  Current status: lawyer

  Social status level: 8

  Class: Office Worker. Level: 3

  Married.

  Husband: Philip Panfilov

  Children: none

  Reputation: Amicability 5/60

  Only Amicability? And only 5 points?

  Never mind. This weird game system probably didn’t even list Love on its Reputation scale. But still...

  Engrossed in these thoughts, I began laying the table. How funny. Yanna was the first person today who didn’t seem to have a criminal record.

  She’d already changed out of her office clothes and slumped onto the kitchen stool. “How was your day, then?”

  “Fine. I’ve cleaned the house, spent some time looking for a proper job and uploaded my CV to Headhunter.com.”

  “Poor you! You’ve cleaned the house! And uploaded your CV! You must be exhausted!”

  I stared at a new system message.

  I just didn’t understand it.

  Your Reputation with Yannina “Yanna” Orlova has decreased!

  Current reputation: Dislike 25/30

  I seemed to have been right: this was a standard gaming Reputation system. But at the moment, I couldn’t care less.

  Dislike, why? What had I done?

  I felt a surge of blood flush my face. My ears burned.

  I gulped, trying to take it all in, then looked up at her. Yanna’s unfriendly stare was boring a hole in me. There was no love in her eyes.

  I spoke slowly, weighing every word and trying to sound calm,

  “I know how you must feel. I’m sorry. You work hard while I stay home sleeping, then spend nights playing. You have to lug all that shopping around... I know. I’ve made up my mind. No more playing. No more raids. I’m getting a proper job.”

  “You don’t mean it!” she exclaimed, faking amazement. “Just about goddamn time!”

  “I’m serious. I’ve also dropped my freelance rates today. This way I might get more job offers while I’m looking for work.”

  “You’re full of surprises, you! Did you also write your book?”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t have the time. Actually... it’s possible I might not-”

  I faltered but strangely enough, I felt relieved. For the first time in my life, I’d spoken my mind instead of just offering excuses.

  Yanna raised an eyebrow. “Anything happen?”

  Oh yes. It most definitely had. Still, I wasn’t going to tell her. She wouldn’t believe me. She’d just think she’d been living with a nutcase all these years.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said. “Tuck in.”

  She chuckled.

  We ate in silence, each thinking our own thoughts. No idea what she was contemplating. Me, I was pondering over the fact that I’d just received a numerical confirmation of Yanna’s alienation which she’d expressed on a few occasions before.

  After dinner, she retired to our bedroom while I did the dishes and had another smoke break. Then I joined her and sat on the bed next to her. We really needed to talk. We needed to get this out of our respective systems.

  She was lying in bed as if I wasn’t even there, listening to the music in her earphones and scrolling through her Instagram feed.

  I peered at the message hovering over her head,

  Yannina “Yanna” Orlova

  Age: 24

  Reputation: Dislike 25/30

  Then a new message popped up,

  Your Relationship with Yannina “Yanna” Orlova has decreased!

  Current Reputation: Dislike 20/30

  I reached out to touch her, wishing to say something. A new message appeared above the first one,

  Your Relationship with Yannina “Yanna” Orlova has decreased!

  Current Reputation: Dislike 15/30

  I sprang off the bed and shot out of the room before my own wife aggroed me.

  She couldn’t even bear being next to me!

  For the next couple of hours, I circled the rest of the apartment like a caged animal, smoking, drinking coffee, then smoking some more, then making more coffee, occasionally trying to Google instances of spontaneous virtual-reality disorders (which I apparently had) or scrolling through pages of marital advice.

  Should I go on that raid? Or make a appointment with a doctor? I logged into the game but kept checking my email every couple of minutes, hoping for new job offers.

  Basically, I was just going mad. My brain was in overload. I was losing Yanna.

  My PM box was bursting with messages. I could understand my clanmates. The raid had alre
ady started, they could see I was logged in but still I wouldn’t join them. My avatar was standing frozen like an idiot in the middle of the game’s capital city.

  I didn’t notice Yanna walk out of the bedroom, standing behind my back and watching me sitting at my computer staring at the game interface.

  I did notice the new system message, though.

  Your Relationship with Yannina “Yanna” Orlova has decreased!

  Current Reputation: Animosity 20/30

  “Didn’t you just say ‘No more playing’?” she asked behind my back. “‘No more raids’, yeah right! You’re a jerk, that’s what you are. I think I’ve had enough.”

  I didn’t turn. Pointless. When your relationship dropped to Animosity, it meant no one would even talk to you. I could only make matters worse.

  She slammed the bedroom door. I sat there, listening to her pack her stuff and talk to someone on the phone. Her voice sounded so sweet — flirty even — and ringing with happiness. You wouldn’t think it was the same person who’d just hissed and vented her fury at me.

  I put on my Shabby Sneakers of Misfortune, scooped up my cell phone, the cigarettes, the lighter, the wallet and the apartment keys, dumped it all into a backpack and walked out of the house as I was, in a pair of shorts and a faded T-shirt (-1 to Charisma, Durability: 2/20).

  For some reason, I headed for the ramshackle pavilion in the center of the playground and sat there, staring at the flickering light above the front door. Everything went out of focus.

  Had it not been for the wretched Reputation message, I might have tried to go back and apologize like I’d done many times before. I might have tried to explain and beg her forgiveness. We might have dissolved into one of our night-long shouting matches when I’d be trying to put my arms around her while she’d scratch me, telling me to keep my filthy hands to myself. Then, when the sun finally showed up and our janitor, a Tadzhik migrant who could barely speak any Russian, started swishing his broom outside, we’d finally make up. We had this agreement never to go to bed angry.