"Misha, come on, get up already! What do you mean, 'five more minutes'? Want me to smack you?"
My friend was practically bouncing with excitement, eager for the upcoming party. Well, can't blame him—it was my birthday, after all.
The name's Mikhail. Full name—Mikhail Romanovich Yezhov. Not exactly the life of the party type. But by some miracle, I managed to find friends last year. And today, we were supposed to have an insane birthday bash at my family's dacha.
The problem? I really, really wanted to sleep. Maybe I could push the party back an hour…
A pillow hit me square in the face.
Yeah, guess wishes don't always come true.
"Alright, alright, I'm up," I mumbled, still half-asleep, forcing myself to sit up.
The dacha was outside the city, so we decided to leave early. Not the best idea after last night's binge-watch of House M.D. with Max. Staying up for multiple seasons felt great at the time. Waking up, though? Not so much.
Dragging myself out of bed, I threw on my sweatpants and my favorite hoodie—the one with the beer-drinking dinosaur.
The view from the seventh floor was amazing… if you liked looking at a factory. Every morning, the chimneys practically begged me to come work there.
Despite the artificial gray clouds, the weather was decent. I caught sight of my neighbor walking her ridiculously fat pug. Damn, I wish I had a dog too. But not some tiny rat-like thing—I wanted a big, fluffy menace. A Leonberger would be perfect. Too bad a puppy here costs as much as a decent motorcycle. And the idea of surviving on instant noodles for two years didn't exactly thrill me.
Alright, need to grab something to eat.
…Please, let there be food left.
Opening the fridge, I was met with pure despair. A single mouse could've hung itself in there.
"Max, you feeling okay? Yesterday, you inhaled several bowls of soup, a plate of pasta, and even—holy hell—those expired meatballs. We don't have anything left to eat, do we?"
Max arched an eyebrow. "Seriously? We didn't save anything from last night? Wait, wasn't there some pizza?"
Oh, right. Pizza.
Guess we decided to feast like kings before the apocalypse.
We quickly scarfed down the cold leftovers—our microwave had died, and, of course, the stove was broken too—before heading outside.
Max's old rusty car was supposed to be waiting for us in the courtyard.
Except… it wasn't.
"Uh, where's your legendary 'seven'?" I asked, looking around.
Max smirked. "Oh, we're not taking that old junk heap today. Feast your eyes on my new ride."
His eyes practically sparkled with pride.
"Presenting, a nearly-new five-year-old Volkswagen Golf! Feel honored, mere mortal, to grace its seats! Muahaha!"
We got in.
Started the car.
Drove five meters.
It stalled.
Started it again.
Stalled.
Started.
"Max, are you fucking kidding me?!"
"Shut up, I got this!"
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"
Eventually, we actually managed to get going.
The drive was long, so I pulled out my phone. First, I sent a message to our group chat, Kitties and Ratties, letting everyone know not to wait for us and that the spare key was under the doormat. Then, I started browsing for something new to read.
That's when I saw it—a newly uploaded translation of some unknown web novel, Ways of Survival.
"Dude, can you not be glued to your phone for once?" Max groaned.
"And do what?"
"I don't know, man. Look out the window? Enjoy life?"
"Yeah, sure. Great advice," I muttered, scrolling further.
When I was a kid, my parents thought I was mute. Every time someone tried to talk to me, I'd freeze up or start crying. Doctors ruled out any medical conditions, but no therapy seemed to work.
Then, one specialist suggested they try reading to me.
My first book was Karlsson-on-the-Roof. I got so obsessed with the character interactions that I started mimicking their lines.
"I'm a man in my prime! Strong and handsome!"
That was my breakthrough.
Books taught me to speak. Books helped me overcome my fear of people. But my love for reading never faded.
And now, I had a new novel in front of me.
Only five chapters had been translated so far. After that, I'd have to struggle through the raw text with Google Translate.
Eh. Wouldn't be the first time.
I started reading.
One chapter.
Two.
Three.
By the time I switched to the original version, my eyes widened.
Holy shit.
This novel had thousands of chapters.
I'd never be able to finish it in my lifetime.
The plot was slow as hell, but something about it kept me hooked.
And then—