Alex set the razor down, ran a hand over his cheek, and looked in the mirror. 

Bags under his eyes, swollen lids, gray skin, receding hairline. 

He shook his head. 

“All right. Today.”

 

Six months since the divorce. 

The kids had just shrugged — life goes on.

 

At first, being alone felt intoxicating. 

No one to owe anything to. No one to answer to. 

He walked late, ran, drank whiskey on the terrace. 

And no one hissed over his shoulder: “Honey, aren’t you overdoing it?”

 

Then the high wore off.

 

One evening in the park he saw an old couple on a bench. 

They laughed, constantly touching each other — hands, knees, collar — laughed again, talked, nodded, wiggled their fingers comically. 

He walked past twice. 

They never noticed. 

He wanted to see their faces. 

Came closer — and every time stared at the ground instead. 

In their faces was everything he no longer had. 

And, it seemed, never would.

 

From that evening on, everything became unbearable. 

The apartment turned into a warehouse of sounds: dripping faucet, humming fridge, air-conditioner rattle, the smell of cold coffee. 

At night — only the ceiling and emptiness.

 

Next morning he saw the ad again: 

“Spheros — the place where you will finally be understood.”

 

He snorted: 

“Yeah, they’ll understand me, catch me, and understand me again so hard I won’t collect my bones.”

 

Still, he clicked.

 

Looking into his faded eyes, he realized: enough. 

Grandpa used to say: “A man decides — a man does.” 

He decided. 

Signed up for the basic account. 

Out of curiosity, mostly.

 

Two days later a package arrived. 

A neuro-helmet. 

A message on the phone with a new slogan: 

“Find the one who feels like you do.”

 

Below it blinked: 

[SPHEROS — ENTER]

 

He smirked, put the helmet on, took a deep breath. 

“Well, old man… here we go.”

 

The screen flashed. 

The room vanished.

 

***

 

A surge of adrenaline exploded inside. 

Sleepiness blown away. 

Muscles rang, demanding movement.

 

He jumped up, stretched until his joints cracked, dropped and did sixty push-ups. 

Could have done more, but he wanted to run.

 

Pulling on sneakers, he noticed: furniture rearranged, apartment brighter, cleaner. 

On the wall hung the painting from that exhibition — the one he never dared to buy.

 

He ran outside. 

The sun hung in the sky too perfectly, like a painted disk in a cheap VR headset. 

Not a cloud. Not a shadow. Not a speck of dust.

 

Made a lap, stopped, started stretching.

 

“You run fast!”

 

He turned. 

A girl stood beside him — twenty-five, maybe. 

Too beautiful. 

Too young.

 

He opened his mouth to brush her off, but out came:

 

“Fair warning: I’m very susceptible to flattery.”

 

She laughed — the sound clean, like from a speaker.

 

“I don’t flatter strangers.”

 

“Not strangers yet. But we could rent the same hotel room.”

 

He shook his head. 

“Wait. That’s a line from an old French movie.”

 

The program was digging through his memory and feeding him ready-made lines. 

Sun without shadows. Girl without a single blemish. 

Too smooth to be real.

 

He remembered the fine print: 

“By using demo mode you consent to the processing of emotional data…”

 

Snorted to himself: 

“So that’s their ‘understanding’. 

While I flirt, they’re digging around in my skull.”

 

Gave the beauty one last ironic look, smirked crookedly, and said:

 

— Spheros — restart.

 

***

 

Everything repeated: energy surge, different furniture, push-ups, run.

 

This time he never reached the fake beauty. 

Ahead, a woman stumbled and fell with a quiet moan.

 

He crouched, offered his hand:

 

— Hurt yourself?

 

She looked up, winced in pain, but smiled:

 

— Think I twisted my ankle.

 

He took her elbow, helped her up.

 

— Call an ambulance?

 

— No, no. I live close. I’ll make it.

 

— Then I’ll walk you.

 

Surprised himself. 

In real life he’d have muttered “get well” and fled. 

Here they walked side by side, and conversation started on its own.

 

She introduced herself:

 

— Lina.

 

— Mr. Ross,— slipped out automatically. Winced and corrected: — Alex.

Silence. A few steps.

 

Leaves rustled underfoot. Somewhere a dog was being walked.

 

She suddenly stopped, turned to him:

 

— Do you run here often?

 

— First time. I’m not really a sports guy. Just… felt like it today.

 

— I thought so.

 

— Why?

 

— You look around like you’re seeing everything for the first time.

 

He smiled:

 

— Today everything really does seem different.

 

She smiled — a little sadly. Wind touched a strand of hair at her temple.

 

— Nice feeling. Few people keep it.

 

They reached her building. 

She stopped at the door, looked at the handle, and said quietly:

 

— Thank you.

 

And didn’t invite him in.

 

***

 

Then everything took off on its own. 

Next day — park again, her again. 

Then again. And again. 

“Coincidence?” flashed through his mind. 

No.

 

Joy was stronger. 

Thick, warm, it filled his chest and drowned every doubt.

 

They walked. Talked about everything and nothing. 

Books. Old movies. How people can’t be happy when things are good. 

She no longer limped.

 

Sometimes he caught himself thinking: 

the conversation flows too smoothly. 

She doesn’t just understand. 

She knows what he’s about to say.

 

He had only just thought: 

“Is the world just what we feel? Eyes — light, ears — sound, skin — warmth. The brain stitches it together and says: this is reality. But is there any guarantee anything exists beyond that? And does it matter — if you’re happy?”

 

She turned and smiled:

 

— The main thing is to feel happy. The rest doesn’t matter.

 

He froze. 

Word for word what he’d just thought.

 

— You read minds.

 

— Just sharing mine, — she shrugged. — We see the world only through sensations. Does it make a difference where we are — here or somewhere else? If you’re happy, that’s reality.

 

He nodded. 

A thought flickered: “too perfect.” 

But joy was stronger. 

He brushed the thought away like a bloodsucker. 

For the first time in years he felt truly good. 

Why ruin it?

 

***

 

Leaving Spheros, he caught himself already waiting for tomorrow evening — not as entertainment, but as coming home. 

For the first time in years.

 

Whether Lina was real — he no longer asked.

 

One evening they ended up on an empty beach. 

The sea glowed with phosphorus. 

And they finally did what they’d both wanted from the start.

 

“I’m starving,” he said, pulling on his pants. “Let’s eat.”

 

“What?”

 

“Burgers and fries. Double portion.”

 

“You’re crazy. I can’t. We’ll blow up like dough.”

 

He laughed and kissed her temple:

 

“Don’t worry, love. We’re in virtual. Here everything’s allowed.”

 

They often had breakfast together now — in his virtual apartment, only cleaner, roomier, smelling of fresh coffee. 

He never went to her place. 

“Someone else there?” the thought flashed. 

He chased it away. What did it matter? 

All their free time belonged to each other.

 

When he woke, Lina was already sitting on the windowsill, knees drawn up, watching him. 

She knew how to laugh quietly, almost without sound. 

Knew how to listen when he spoke.

 

Still, sometimes something jarred.

 

Once she asked:

 

— Don’t you want to go to the mountains? You used to hike, didn’t you?

 

He froze.

 

— How do you know? I never told you.

 

— Just guessed, — she shrugged and quickly changed the subject.

 

Another time, when he talked about the divorce, she suddenly repeated his ex-wife’s exact words:

 

— Maybe you just don’t know how to be happy with someone else.

 

He flinched.

 

— You said it… exactly like her.

 

— Like who?

 

He opened his mouth — and closed it. 

Didn’t want to ruin the morning.

 

But the aftertaste remained.

 

Next day he tossed out:

 

— You know, I feel alive again. Like reality finally switched on.

 

She smiled — that calm, perfect smile:

 

— Maybe you’ve just ended up in a world where someone finally understands you.

 

He went cold — as if the heat had been cut off. 

The slogan. 

Word for word the slogan from the Spheros ad.

 

He looked at her. 

She still smiled. 

Evenly. 

Perfectly.

 

He looked away and whispered:

 

— Spheros — exit.

 

***

 

The room greeted him with pale light, dust, and silence. 

On the table — a mug of cold coffee. 

Head throbbed, mouth tasted of metal. 

“Fake,” he thought, brushing his teeth. “All fake. Lina too.”

 

The doorbell rang.

 

He spat, rinsed, opened.

 

Lina stood in the doorway.

 

Same eyes. 

Everything else — different: face sunken, hair dull, shadows under the eyes. 

Long warm sweater in the stuffy hallway heat.

 

He stepped to hug her — she drew back slightly, wincing from pain in her side.

 

— Hi, Alex, — she smiled weakly. — Wanted to see you… while I can still feel the sun on my skin.

 

He froze. 

Three blows — and everything became clear.

 

She walked in, looked around:

 

— Less air here… and you’re older too… but that’s even good.

 

Sat in the chair, heavily. 

Ran a finger through the dust on the table.

 

— You know… there, in Spheros, everything feels real. Even feelings. And here — just a shell.

 

He nodded. 

His voice came out on its own:

 

— Want to stay there? Forever?

 

She looked at him — long, silently. 

Then quietly:

 

— I have cancer, Alex. Six months, maybe less.

 

He couldn’t speak — she continued:

 

— I don’t want you watching me fade. 

You’re not obliged.

 

He was already holding the phone.

 

— There’s a way. Look.

 

Showed the screen:

 

“In exchange for unlimited access to the Spheros service, the user grants the company the right to store and use their emotional patterns… 

Agreement is irrevocable. 

By confirming, you activate an unlimited session.”

 

Two buttons: 

[CANCEL] [CONFIRM]

 

She stared for a long time. 

Then raised her eyes — no fear in them anymore.

 

— We’re selling our souls to the devil.

 

— Let it be, — he said. — As long as we’re together.

 

She nodded. 

Took out her phone.

 

Looking into each other’s eyes, they pressed “Confirm.”

 

— Spheros — enter, — they said together.

 

The screen flashed white. 

The air trembled. 

And they were quietly breathed in.