“Irina Viktorovna, we’ve got another incident at School No. 7. The shop teacher drank the machines away and wrote them off as ‘obsolete’,” the young secretary said, placing a folder on the polished desk.
“Not ‘drank away’—‘lost due to negligence,’ Lenočka. Learn to phrase it so a person can be fired with a lifetime stain, not merely reprimanded,” Irina replied without lifting her eyes from the monitor. “Pity is a defect in our work. An institution must run like a clock. If a gear is rusted, you replace it. Draft an order for an unscheduled inspection. I’ll go myself.”
Part 1. The illusion of well-being in a Stalin-era building
The apartment exhaled history and immaculate order. Lofty ceilings, decorative plasterwork Irina had paid to restore from her own pocket, heavy doors—everything here spoke of solidity. She loved this home. It had come to her from her mother, who, tired of the city’s noise, had flown off to the sea with a new husband, leaving her daughter the square meters and an old piano.
Evening drifted down over the city like a gray veil. Irina sat at the kitchen table, going through textbook procurement reports. She enjoyed the work—finding mismatches, catching lies hidden in numbers, forcing chaos to obey. She was an inspector not by diploma, but by temperament.
Sergey stepped into the kitchen, trying to be silent. He always walked that way when he wanted something—soft, slightly guilty, like a big but timid dog. Six years of marriage had taught Irina to read those signals.
“Ira…” he started, perching on the edge of a chair. “There’s… a situation.”
“Tea?” she asked, never looking up from the screen.
“No, thanks. It’s about my dad.”
Irina took off her glasses and looked at him. Sergey was still a striking man, but age had added a certain slackness—not so much in the body as in the spirit. He taught shop class and earned almost nothing, but Irina had never thrown that in his face. Her salary was enough. In him, she believed she valued kindness and devotion.
“What about Viktor Petrovich? Is he sick?”
“Worse. His old ‘four’ is completely falling apart. The underbody’s rotted through—yesterday he drove to the dacha and the muffler dropped off. He lives out there, outside the city. Without a car he’s helpless. Even driving to the store becomes an expedition.”
Irina nodded. She respected her father-in-law. Viktor Petrovich was old-school—honest, direct.
“So what are you suggesting?”
“I found an option. The bank has an auto loan—preferential terms. I’d take it on myself, but you know my salary… I need the down payment, then the monthly payments… I’ll take extra jobs, weekend work. We have to help him.”
“How much?” Irina asked flatly.
The sum was substantial, but not fatal to their budget.
“Fine. Do it. A father is sacred.”
Sergey lit up. He sprang to his feet, kissed her cheek, and hurried into the other room—supposedly to call his father. Irina watched him go. Something dim and sticky stirred inside her—an inspector’s instinct that always reacted to falsified papers. But this was her husband, not someone under audit. She smothered the suspicion at birth.
Family was trust.
Until proven otherwise.
Yet three months later, the scene repeated.
“Ira, the insurance went up, and the bank recalculated the interest… We need to add a bit more, to cover the payment,” Sergey said, hiding his eyes, worrying a button on his shirt.
“You said the payments were fixed.”
“Turned out it was a floating rate. I didn’t catch it. I’ll pay everything back, I swear.”
Irina transferred the money in silence.
But in her inner filing cabinet, the folder labeled “Sergey” gained a red flag.
Part 2. An office overlooking the schoolyard
The Department of Education buzzed like a disturbed hive. End of quarter—reports, inspections, deadlines. Irina Viktorovna sat in her office surrounded by stacks of folders. Outside, the wind chased yellowed leaves across the yard; inside her office, order ruled.
She stared at the banking app on her phone. The amounts vanishing into Sergey’s “loan” were starting to get on her nerves. It wasn’t about money—it was about principle. Inefficient spending was exactly what she punished school principals for. Why should she tolerate it in her own family?
“Auto loan. A car for Dad.” The phrase kept circling.
Irina remembered she hadn’t called Viktor Petrovich in a long time. Half a year, maybe. Shameful.
She dialed. The ring went on for a while—he was probably in the garden.
“Hello!” came his cheerful voice.
“Viktor Petrovich, hello. It’s Irina.”
“Irochka! What a joy. I keep thinking—you’ve forgotten the old man, working away in your ministry.”
“Department,” Irina corrected. “How are you feeling? How’s the dacha, the garden?”
“Oh, I’m creaking along. The harvest this year is grand—apples everywhere. Come by, I’ll give you jam.”
Irina paused, drumming her fingers on the desk.
“And the new car—how’s it running? Sergey said you were pleased.”
“Car?” His voice wavered with genuine surprise. “What car, dear?”
Irina went still. A cold anger—the same kind that let her shred incompetent officials without blinking—rose from the bottom of her chest.
“How can that be? Sergey took out an auto loan. Said your old ‘four’ was falling apart and he bought you a new one. We’ve been paying for three months.”
Silence hung on the line. Somewhere on his end, old clocks ticked.
“Ira,” Viktor Petrovich said, his voice turning hard. “I’m still driving my old heap. Yesterday I rebuilt the carburetor. I haven’t seen any new car. Sergey visited a month ago—came by commuter train.”
“Understood. Thank you, Viktor Petrovich. Sorry to bother you.”
“Don’t hang up!” he snapped so sharply Irina flinched. “So he hid behind my name? Behind his own father? I’m coming right now. No—I’m going to his job. Where is he, School No. 12?”
“Yes.”
“Wait for my call. I’ll deal with this loan… with my son.”
Irina set the phone on the table. The screen went dark, reflecting her face—calm, and frightening in that calmness.
Part 3. A workshop that reeked of lies
School No. 12 was a typical block building shaped like the letter “H.” The shop-class wing sat apart, near garages and utility sheds. Irina parked around the corner so she wouldn’t be visible from the workshop windows.
She knew her husband’s schedule. He had a free period. She didn’t go through the main entrance. As an inspector, she knew every route in and out. The service door into the yard stood open—security violation, she noted automatically.
In the teachers’ parking lot, among modest Ladas and tired secondhand imports, a spot of metallic red gleamed. A brand-new crossover—sleek, predatory, expensive—wrapped in an invisible ribbon of brazen nerve. The plates were fresh. On the back seat lay a soft toy: a plush teddy bear holding a heart.
Irina walked up to the car. Luxury trim, she judged.
It was her money.
Her hours.
Her nerves.
Her vacations she never took.
She didn’t feel jealousy—no.
She felt disgust, like stepping into a rotten apple.
Voices drifted from the half-open workshop door. Irina moved closer and stopped in a blind spot behind a stack of boards.
“…Do you even understand what you’ve done?!” Viktor Petrovich’s voice boomed off the tiled walls. “You lied to your mother, you lied to your wife, you set me up! I gave you life, you parasite—and you want to shove me into the grave in disgrace?”
“Dad, keep it down, they’ll hear!” Sergey’s voice oozed panic. “Forgive me—things just happened. I love her. She’s not like Irka. Irka’s a robot, a dry stick. All she cares about are reports. But Alisa… she’s alive, she needs joy. She wanted a car—I couldn’t say no. I’m a man!”
“A man?!” The slap cracked, sharp and ringing. “You’re a rag, Sergey. You took money from your wife to buy a toy for your mistress? You’re a kept man.”
“I’m paying it back! I work!”
“You ask Irina for money to cover it! I know everything—she called me!”
“Damn…” Sergey seemed to drop onto a workbench; something clinked. “Dad, don’t tell her about Alisa. Tell her the car is yours, just in the shop. Or that you crashed it. Please. Otherwise she’ll throw me out and I’ll lose everything.”
“I won’t lie. You’re going to your wife and you’ll confess everything. Or I’ll tell her myself. You have until tonight. And you’ll return the car—sell it—and give the money back to your wife.”
“I can’t take the car back! Alisa will leave me!”
Irina stepped away, soundless as a shadow. She’d heard enough. The puzzle had snapped into place. She walked to her car, heels clicking on the asphalt—each step like a judge’s hammer.
Part 4. The territory of cold calculation
The evening in the apartment felt stifling, despite the open windows. Irina sat in an armchair with a cup of tea already gone cold. She didn’t turn on the lights, letting dusk fill the room.
A key scraped in the lock. Sergey came in, trying to radiate confidence that was already splitting at the seams.
“Hi, sweetheart! I’m home early today,” he said, flicking on the hallway light—then stopped when he saw his wife’s silhouette in the living room. “Why are you sitting in the dark? Did something happen?”
Irina rose slowly. She wore her home clothes, hair pulled into a perfect bun. She looked like someone about to conduct a performance review before termination.
“Sit down, Sergey. We need to talk about the budget.”
He tensed but sat on the sofa, forcing a nervous smile.
“Your spreadsheets again? Maybe we eat first?”
“So I’m supposed to pay off the loan, right? And the car is for your mistress, right? How lovely,” Irina said evenly, without raising her voice—yet something inside Sergey collapsed at the sound.
He went white. His mouth opened, then closed. He looked like a fish pulled onto ice.
“Ira, what… What mistress? That’s nonsense…”
“Don’t bother.” She lifted a hand, cutting off the lie. “I saw the car. I heard your conversation with your father. Alisa, was it? ‘Alive’ and ‘needs joy’? And I’m a robot ATM?”
Sergey stood, trying to switch tactics—offense, outrage: the strategy of the weak.
“You were spying on me?! How dare you! I have a right to a private life! I’m sick of your control! Living with you is impossible—you’re not a woman, you’re an inspector in a skirt!”
Irina looked at him with cool disgust. No screaming. No shattered plates. No hysteria. She simply pulled out a sheet of paper.
“You’re right. I am an inspector. And I conducted an audit of our marriage. Conclusion: the enterprise is unprofitable, the partner is dishonest. Liquidation.”
“What?” Sergey lost his momentum.
“Leave. Now.”
“Where am I supposed to go? This is my apartment too! We’ve lived here six years!”
“You’re mistaken. This is my mother’s apartment. You aren’t even registered here—your official address is your father’s village house. You have one hour to pack. If you don’t make it, I’ll put your things out in trash bags.”
“Ira, you can’t… It’s night!”
“I can. Now about the money.” She laid a bank printout on the table. “Every transfer I made you ‘for your father’s car.’ Total—one and a half million rubles. You will return it.”
“I don’t have that kind of money! You know that!”
“I do.” Her voice didn’t change. “That’s why you have two options. Option one: you sign a notarized debt acknowledgment and repay within a month. Option two: I file in court—an unjust enrichment claim. Plus I will initiate division of debts. The loan was taken during the marriage but spent outside the family’s needs. I’ll prove the car is in a third party’s hands. The court will seize the vehicle. Your Alisa will be walking, and the car will go under the hammer for pennies.”
Sergey stumbled backward. Losing face in front of Alisa was more terrifying than losing housing. If the car was taken, Alisa would destroy him.
“You… you’re a monster,” he whispered.
“No, darling. I’m the consequence of your choices. The clock is running. You have fifty-eight minutes.”
Part 5. At the bottom of the credit pit
A month passed. October soaked the city with icy rain, turning streets into gray rivers of gloom. Sergey sat in the tiny room he’d rented.
He was crushed. The night Irina threw him out became the start of the end, but at first he still believed he could wriggle free. Irina’s anger was worse than any screaming scene. She didn’t compromise. Methodically, step by step, she herded him into a corner.
To repay his ex-wife and avoid court (he was terrified Alisa would learn the car had been bought with his wife’s money), Sergey did something insane: he took out several consumer loans at brutal rates from different banks. He managed to scrape together the sum and slam it down in front of Irina, hoping that now things would settle. He kept Alisa. He kept his “image.”
But math is ruthless. The monthly payments on the new loans exceeded his salary by two times. He went to his father, fell at his feet, begging him to sell the dacha or take out a loan in his own name.
Viktor Petrovich listened to him standing on the porch, not even letting him into the house.
“You’re not my son until you become a human being again. Irina told me how you dragged her through the mud. Go. I won’t give you money. Live with your own mind.”
The money ran out completely. Banks began calling—first robots, then polite people, then people who weren’t polite at all. Sergey tried to explain to Alisa that he was having temporary difficulties and asked her to sell the car to cover at least part of the debt.
Alisa’s reaction was instant.
“Sell my little ‘Buzz-Buzz’? So I can pay for your screwups? Are you sick? Are you a man or what? Fix your problems yourself!”
Two days later he saw her in town. She was getting into his (her) car with a younger guy, laughing as she let him hold her by the waist.
In a surge of desperation and wounded pride, Sergey used the spare set of keys he’d wisely kept and stole the car from under Alisa’s windows. For a moment, he felt like the hero of an action movie.
But selling it quickly for a good price didn’t happen. The dealers saw his shaking hands and feverish eyes and drove the price down to the floor. He handed the car over for almost nothing—just to put out the most urgent fires.
Now he sat in an empty room.
No wife.
No apartment.
No mistress.
No car.
And still in debt—the remaining balance was nearly another million.
His phone chimed. A text from the bank: “Your debt has been transferred to collections.”
Then a notification from work: “Dear Sergey Viktorovich, based on the results of an external inspection revealing systematic material shortages, you are dismissed for cause…”
Sergey let the phone slip from his hand.
An inspection.
Irina.
She hadn’t just taken her money back. She’d inspected his school. She’d destroyed him professionally.
He stepped outside to gulp air, as if this might still be a nightmare. At the intersection, stopped at a red light, an engine purred—a familiar car. Metallic red. The same crossover.
Sergey froze. Behind the wheel sat Irina. She looked flawless: a new haircut, an easy smile. In the passenger seat sat a man—imposing, serious. They were talking calmly about something.
Sergey recognized the car not by the plates (they were new), but by a scratch on the right side of the bumper—one Alisa had put there on day one.
Irina had bought the car back.
Through the very same resellers he’d sold it to for pennies.
She’d known he would sell it.
She’d calculated everything.
Now she drove the car he’d paid for with his life—purchased back at scrap price.
The light turned green. The car moved off smoothly, splashing Sergey with dirty water from a puddle. He stood on the sidewalk—filthy, broke, alone—watching the red tail lights shrink into the distance.
He’d thought he understood greed and cunning.
He hadn’t understood intelligence multiplied by righteous fury.
For the first time in his life, he felt truly afraid—because he finally saw the size of his own stupidity.