— I've already said a hundred times, don't feel sorry for me.

Karl tiredly put his fork into a bowl of half-eaten pasta and drank tea. After all his "adventures," he doesn't want to touch alcohol or anything stronger. except for cigarettes, and even that is very rare. You're sitting across from him in his small basement room in the suburbs, barely touching your pasta cooked by him and looking away somewhat guiltily. the fan makes some dull noise, cars occasionally drive by, everything else is quiet.

Karl was your colleague at the taxi service. a little younger than you, he has already managed to put together a wild story: as a teenager, he was interested in the Illuminati, then hacking, and then worked for the KGB. he has been through a lot: constantly disrupted sleep patterns, addiction, eternal anxiety and paranoia are not the best set for a young and promising student. but that was all in the past now. he had already ruined his life, perhaps irrevocably.

Koch rarely smiled, but he was polite enough. It was predictable: his past had worn him out, and his treatment had taken away some of his humanity. he could have a girlfriend and a good job, but now he is just a part-time taxi driver. and still, you could say he got off easy. you can't help but feel sorry for him anyway: he seems incredibly tired to you, not so much physically as mentally. You want to close the curtains, turn off the lights, and let him sleep. but he denies everything.

— Yes, I may never again experience what other people crave: lust, peace, happiness, love, joy. But it's my own fault. I considered myself a god, I believed that I could solve the mystery that drives people to their graves... but in the end, I ended up being a pawn. I deserve it.