The clock read 9:00 AM. Ira lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. What was that last night? A dream or reality? She raised her hands above her, then turned her wrist to her eyes—there it was, the mark with the eye. It looked like an ordinary tattoo. Ira shifted her gaze back to the ceiling, as if the answers to her questions might be written there.
Her phone blinked; the battery was dead. Reluctantly, Ira got out of bed, grabbed the phone, and plugged it into the charger. Saturday was just beginning.
Every Saturday, Ira met up with her girlfriends, and this one was no exception. They’d planned to meet at the park since the girls had young kids. It would be convenient for the little ones to play under supervision while the women caught up on the week’s events.
The usual Saturday routine unfolded to the tunes of Shlyager.FM radio. Cleaning the apartment also meant clearing her head. Thoughts bounced around in her mind like fleas on a dog. The night’s adventure refused to make sense—it was the kind of thing that shouldn’t be possible, yet it was. How much more of the impossible lay ahead of her?
The sun was scorching, even in the shade of the park trees, where it hit 86 degrees. From a distance, Ira spotted her friends with their rambunctious kids. Katya Romashkina—her real last name was Romashova, but “Romashkina” stuck ever since she started dating Slavik Romashov. Instead of calling her “Katya Slavikova,” everyone just went with “Katya Romashkina.” Then there was Zhenya Kravets—not a nickname, but her actual last name and her calling, since she was a master seamstress with her own clothing repair workshop.
Katya was the mom of twin girls, Sasha and Dasha, who had just turned five. They were the spitting image of their gray-eyed, curly-haired mom, but their stubborn streak definitely came from Slavik. If it weren’t for the war, Slavik would be here with them now—he adored his little girls. He’d volunteered to fight back in 2022 and was currently stationed on the Zaporizhzhia front.
Zhenya had a seven-year-old daughter, Anyuta. Zhenya was divorced; her marriage fell apart early on. They split when she was seven months pregnant. Her ex, Serhiy, found himself a wealthy, independent woman, waved goodbye to Zhenya, and vanished from her life. Rumor had it he’d left the country, but no one knew for sure, and Zhenya said she wouldn’t go looking for him. She’d raise her daughter on her own. Her parents helped out, though—they babysat Anyuta, supported Zhenya in getting back on her feet, and even invested in her sewing and repair workshop.
Ira waved to the girls, and within a few minutes, she was at their side. They were seated at a table in the park café, while the kids were nearby at a children’s table, fully engrossed in coloring books.
“Hey, everyone! Man, it’s hot out,” Ira said, plopping down on a chair.
“Hey, Irusya! We’ve already ordered ice cream and cold drinks,” Zhenya replied. “So, ladies, what’s new with you this week?”
“Ugh, Zhenya, what could be new? Constant air raid sirens? Bad news from the front? Honestly, I’m running on empty. If it weren’t for the girls, I’d have lost it by now,” Katya blurted out in one breath.
“Something with Slavik?”
“No, thank God, but I’ve got no energy left for life.”
“Katya, sweetie, everything’s gonna be okay. You’ll see, the war will end soon,” Ira tried to comfort her. “Look, here comes our order. Sasha, Dasha, Anyuta, come eat ice cream with us before it melts!”
The kids swarmed the table and dug into their ice cream with glee. The women didn’t hold back either. The idyllic Saturday vibe eased the tension a bit. The girls laughed as they savored their treats, and the kids got a little messy, which was pretty funny to watch. Afterward, the whole noisy crew headed to the waterfront, where temporary children’s swings and rides were set up. They put the kids on a little train, while the women leaned against the fence surrounding the mini-railway, keeping an eye on the girls’ fun.
“Ira, I’ve got a bad feeling about things at my charity fund,” Katya started. “I can’t seem to balance the numbers for the cars we brought in from abroad for Slavik’s brigade.”
“Maybe it’s just in your head.”
“No, Ira, I’m also struggling to figure out how they’re distributing the uniforms my workshop makes for their orders,” Zhenya chimed in. “The paperwork looks fine—I’ve checked it multiple times myself—but the guys from the units we support keep complaining. Either they don’t get the stuff on time, or they get something completely different from what they ordered.”
“Have you done any audits?”
“Yeah, a few times. Everything checks out at the warehouse.”
“Alright, ladies, I’ll swing by the fund on Monday. I’ll go through the documents myself. Maybe we need to do an inventory of the stock.”
“That’d be amazing.”
The women fell silent for a moment as the kids finished their train ride and set their sights on the carousel.
They spent another two hours walking around, entertaining the kids and themselves with snacks and chatter about everything under the sun.
On Monday, as agreed, Ira headed to the fund. She didn’t even stop by her office, just let her mom know she was going straight there.
The charity fund “Hope” was founded by Katya when Slavik volunteered for the front. Part of the money invested in the fund came from the Romashov family’s personal savings, with Ira and Zhenya pitching in smaller amounts. It was their shared project. Though Katya took on most of the work since it was closest to her heart. She knew firsthand the challenges the soldiers faced from the very start of the war—from gear to drones to vehicles, the latter of which burned out like matches. They decided to bring in cars from abroad, so-called “Euro-plates.” Katya found volunteers to drive the cars from overseas to Ukraine, where they’d be repaired if needed before heading to the front. The fund also took on military clothing, and that’s where Zhenya stepped in with her workshop. Families of mobilized soldiers started joining the fund. Some came because they couldn’t sit at home, others brought their own stories. Over two years, the fund had delivered over three hundred vehicles, thousands of clothing sets, and hundreds of drones to the front.
The fund was based in warehouse spaces that belonged to Slavik. Before the war, this was a wholesale base for household chemicals, but the war changed everything. A nearby hangar was rented to store the vehicles.
The fund’s office was also in the warehouse—a small room of about two hundred square feet, housing Katya, her assistant Alina, and volunteers Misha and Anton.
“Good morning, everyone,” Ira greeted.
“Hey, Irka! I’m just going over the paperwork for the latest batch of cars that came in on Thursday. The guys from the repair shop are coming today to check them out,” Katya said, looking up from the documents. “The paperwork’s in order, the cars cleared customs, and the fund gets preferential customs rates. So, wanna go take a look at these cars?”
“Sure, let’s make a list and cross-check them with the customs declarations.”
The hangar where the cars were stored was just a minute’s walk from the fund’s office, on the same property.
“Who’s handling the search and transport of the cars now? Ivanovich is in the hospital after getting injured while delivering a car to the front line. Is it Anton and Misha?”
“No, surprisingly, we found a very business-savvy and resourceful guy—Serhiy Mykolayovych. He came to me the day after Ivanovich got injured. I wasn’t even looking for anyone.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah.”
Ira and Katya entered the hangar. It was Ira’s first time here in the two years the fund had been running—she mostly handled the bookkeeping. The hangar was massive, with gates probably thirty feet high and sixty feet wide. Ira couldn’t gauge the length at first glance. It was packed with vehicles of all kinds—sedans, vans, small trucks. All suitable for the front.
Suddenly, Ira felt a burning sensation on her wrist where the mark was. She paused for a moment, unbuttoned her shirt sleeve to check—the mark was glowing. She glanced around to make sure no one saw, quickly buttoned her sleeve back up, and hurried to catch up with Katya. Inside the hangar, there was a small office area. Behind a desk sat a man in his sixties—likely Serhiy Mykolayovych.
Serhiy Mykolayovych looked like a kindly character straight out of a movie—white hair, gray eyes, a wide thirty-two-tooth smile, a checkered shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and pants resembling a work jumpsuit. His appearance screamed trustworthiness.
Her wrist burned again, forcing Ira to close her eyes for a second. When she opened them, she froze. Instead of Serhiy Mykolayovych, she saw a much younger man, maybe in his thirties, with thinning, greasy hair and small, dark eyes.
Over the past two days, Ira had learned to control her emotions, and now she acted as if nothing had changed, keeping things normal for Katya’s sake.
“Good morning, my name’s Iryna. I’m the fund’s accountant, here to do an inventory of the vehicles.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Serhiy Mykolayovych. I’d be happy to show you everything.”
Katya’s phone rang, and she glanced at the screen.
“It’s Slavik. I’ll take this. Ira, can you manage without me?”
“Yeah, go ahead. Say hi to Slavik for me.”
Katya stepped out, and Ira sat down at the desk across from Serhiy Mykolayovych.
“Serhiy Mykolayovych, let’s go over the list of vehicles that were brought in, then walk through the hangar and check what’s here.”
“Sure, here’s the list. Let’s verify it. Or would you like some coffee first? I’ve got some tasty chocolate.”
“No, thanks, I’m pretty short on time,” she said, struggling to pretend everything was fine. “Let’s go take a look.”
Serhiy Mykolayovych headed out the door, and Ira followed. She stepped outside, paused for a moment, closed her eyes, looked inward, and opened them again. The hangar was filled with luxurious, expensive cars—not the beat-up Euro-plates meant for the front. These vehicles started at twenty thousand dollars, not the two thousand listed in the customs declarations.
“This guy’s set himself up nicely,” Ira thought. Under the guise of old cars, he was smuggling high-end, exclusive vehicles into Ukraine. Now it made sense why these cars never reached the front.
Serhiy Mykolayovych walked ahead without looking back, naming makes and models of cars that weren’t even there. Ira trailed behind, just nodding along. They reached the end of the row. He’d listed forty vehicles that didn’t exist here. After touching the last car, he turned to Ira, though he wasn’t looking at her yet.
“This is the last one. Needs a bit of repair, but I think we’ll have it fixed in a week, and it’ll head to the guys. They’re waiting for it.”
“Are you sure about that?”
At that moment, he looked at Ira and froze. She rolled up her sleeve and raised her hand, letting him see the glowing mark on her wrist.
“So, are you sure these vehicles will reach their destination?”
He stayed silent, his face turning red. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“I’ll ask again, are you sure?”
“No, this can’t be. This kind of thing doesn’t happen here,” was all he managed to say.
“Well, as you can see, it does. So, what are we going to do?”
“How about we make a deal? I’ll offer you 30 percent from these cars.”
“Why only thirty? Isn’t that a bit low?”
“Alright, fine. Let’s do fifty-fifty. That’s a lot of money.”
“One hundred percent of the value of these cars needs to be transferred to the fund’s account right now. I’m guessing this isn’t the first time you’ve pulled something like this. We’re going back to the office to finalize everything, and I don’t want to see a trace of you here after that.”
“Aren’t you scared, little girl? You’re here alone with me. I could just crush you right now, and no one would ever find you. Your clueless friend Katya won’t help you either. She’s a complete airhead. When I staged that drone attack on your precious Ivanovich, she didn’t even bat an eye—she fell right into my trap. I’m such a nice guy. I could turn you to ash right here and scatter your remains.”
“Go ahead, try it. I’m waiting,” Ira said, her eyes burning with such intensity that she started to scare herself.
He tried to use his power against Ira, but when his own force slammed him against the wall, he realized he’d lost.
Within a few minutes, the fund’s account was a million dollars richer, and Ira escorted the failed mage to the door. When Katya saw an unfamiliar man leaving the hangar, peeling off a checkered shirt like the one Serhiy Mykolayovych wore, she was stunned.
“Who’s that?”
“Nobody anymore. Katya, here’s the situation: there are forty expensive, exclusive cars in your hangar, brought into the country under the guise of old Euro-plates.”
“What?! Exclusive? Are you blind? Half of them are scrap metal!”
“Katya, take a deep breath and go inside.”
Katya didn’t breathe—she stormed into the hangar.
“Holy crap! How is this possible? These weren’t here! Ira, I don’t understand. Half an hour ago, these cars weren’t here. Where did they come from? Where’s Serhiy Mykolayovych?”
“Katya, I can’t explain it to you, but these cars were here from the start. They were brought in from abroad. And this Serhiy Mykolayovych—he’s not who you think he is. Or rather, you won’t see him again. I’m calling my stepdad now. He’ll know what to do. Don’t worry, the fund won’t be affected. Sit tight for a minute while I call him.”
Ira stepped outside, pulled out her phone, and dialed her stepdad’s number.
“Good morning, Dad.” She called her stepdad “Dad” because he’d raised her since she was five. She never knew her biological father, and her mom never talked about him. “I’m at the fund. We’ve got a problem I can’t handle on my own. I really need your help. Can you come over now? Great, I’ll wait.”
Ira returned to the hangar. Katya was sitting on a chair, looking shell-shocked and crying.
“Katya, come on, why are you crying? Everything’s gonna be fine. Dad’s on his way, and he’ll sort this out.”
But Katya burst into loud sobs. Ira walked over, wrapped her arms around her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head.
Her stepdad arrived twenty minutes later. Ira gave him a partial account of the car situation, explaining that they’d discovered today that premium-class vehicles had been smuggled into Ukraine under the fund’s documents. The fund uncovered the scam today, though the cars were cleared through customs on Thursday, handled by Serhiy Mykolayovych, who disappeared after the girls confronted him. Ira knew he’d never be found, but that was the least of her concerns. Her stepdad, Pavlo Ivanovych Soroka, was a colonel in the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU). She was 100 percent confident he’d handle it.
They moved to the fund’s office, handed over the customs declarations to her stepdad, and he returned to the warehouse. Ira opened the online banking app and showed Katya the account balance.
“Ira, I don’t get it. Where did this money come from?”
“Let’s call it compensation for emotional distress. I’m sure you’ll figure out how to use these funds. I’ve gotta go—I’ve got another meeting today.”
“You know, Ira, you’re like a fairy godmother. You show up, work some magic, drive everyone crazy, and then disappear. I hope one day you’ll tell me what you did today and how. But you’re my miracle. I love you,” Katya said, tearing up again.
“Alright, Kateryna, enough with the waterworks. Tell me, how’s Slavik?”
“Ugh, I’m done crying. Slavik hadn’t been in touch for a week—I was losing my mind. He got back from the front line today and called right away. He’s gone to sleep now, but he’ll call again later.”
“Thank God. I’ve gotta run. Call me if you need anything. I’m heading out of town for a few days, might be out of reach. Text me on Telegram, and I’ll reply as soon as I can. Alright, I’m off.”
Ira hugged Katya and dashed to the road to call a cab.
She quickly messaged her mom on Telegram with the official version of what happened at the fund and requested a few days off. She’d already realized she needed to return to the Between-Worlds.
So many questions, and not a single answer. Iryna Ataman was heading back to the Between-Worlds...