## 2018:05:12:07:25 - Real Life: Dasomov's Apartment

With his ear pressed firmly against the phone, Dasomov could faintly here the drama unfold at his niece's residence. The old maid yelled, and though the sound of her yell wouldn't scare a crow, Dasomov shuddered. She could be brain dead. Oh, God! What have I done?! The middle-aged man paced away his life in a tight circle no more than four feet in diameter with his hands on his head, still gripping the phone. After a few minutes, someone hung up the phone. No explanation was needed, thought Dasomov. He set his phone down on his desk and got down on his knees to stare at the floor. His mind raced. I've lost two people... and on a game. How could I have done this? I've failed to protect the people who entrusted themselves to me. He leaned up and eyed his computer monitor with a mixed expression of hatred, wonder, and awe. What is this game? Is this game cursed?

In the refrigerator, there awaited his arrival a bottle of the stuff that makes you forget bad times and replaces them with a new kind of headache the day after. Though unseen, it called out to him as a demon tempting its prey. No! No! Dasomov refused even as he glanced back to eye the fridge. You've failed, returned the thought. You have lost a loved one already. The cost is too great. The thought of failure continued to pierce him. He had to press on with the mission. If he didn't, then everything else would have been done for nothing. But if he continued, then he might lose even more people. What hurt worse most was losing the only family member he knew who actually played the game. Her smiling face from four days ago was still fresh in memory. How much more are you going to risk for a game? You killed your own niece! Without moving his head, his eyes wandered the walls and took him on a voyage in the direction of the kitchen.

"No!" he shouted.

Dasomov took a deep breath and opened up the chat window. He needed to change gears fast. Finding out what was going on might help. If anything was to be done about Anastasia, they could do it empowered by the new data that Yegor had just logged.

"Sorry, Doslad," apologized Brofin. "Zontna just left. I think he had work."

Dasomov replied as his usual Doslad: "That's ok. I'll have a look at the logs myself to see if I can glean anything. Did you get to see how the monster left."

Brofin: "Yes, sir. It returned to its carriage and departed in a similar manner to how it came. I dare say it's part of the area in which we found it."

Doslad: "Good. Thank you. I guess this confirms the theory Jyos proposed."

Some other chatter ensued after that, but Dasomov wasn't interested. He desperately wanted to load up the logs saved by Zontna, but he could sense his mind giving in to the beckoning of the booze. So he decided to go sit down for a short meal where the liquor was too pricey to be a bother. A second breakfast wasn't truly justified eaten alone, and since he needed to get some work done, he decided to grab some of his papers and invite along another colleague from work.

## 2018:05:12:10:02 - Real Life: Cosmonauts Embankment, Saratov, Russia

After a miserable morning trying to get work done, Dasomov parted ways with his fellow employee and decided to take a nap before heading out for a short walk to clear his mind. The clouds overhead combined with the rushing wind kept the temperature feeling brisk despite the forecast of warmth the next week. Maybe today was just one of those unlucky days, Dasomov thought.

He sat on a bench overlooking the water and contemplated on what would come next. First, he would try to get some work done for a few more hours. That would continue the work of this morning to clear his mind. Then he might have a sip of vodka around 3 for a break. He would continue until dinner, have a can of vodka, and get to work studying the logs. Another can wouldn't hurt, there would it? Dasomov started to note the frequency of his thoughts of alcohol.

I don't need it, he told himself. On the bright side, he thought, no one in Anastasia's family would find out that it was his doing. The pleasantness of that thought turned sour as he realized how selfish it was.

Just then, his cell phone rang. He looked at the number and a feeling of guilt crawled up his gut. YASHENKO.