I wrote the book. I know everyone who tries to skip the work. Anton tried to close the window, but the "X" vanished.
The screen flashed. Suddenly, his notebook, lying open on the desk, began to fill with elegant, handwritten French. The ink bled upward through the paper as if a ghost were writing from the other side.
Anton laughed nervously. A clever bit of malware. A sophisticated prank by some tech-savvy classmate. He typed back: Deal. Give me Chapter 5. skachat reshebnik po frantsuzkomu iazyku iurii klimenko
Anton froze. His hands hovered over the keyboard. "How do you know my name?" he whispered to the empty room.
I will give you the answers. Every single one. But French is the language of love and diplomacy, Anton. You cannot take without giving. For every page of answers I provide, I take one hour of your sleep. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. I take them from the end of your life. I wrote the book
The cursor blinked at the end of the search bar like a steady, mocking heartbeat.
There it was. A single direct link:
Anton is twenty-two now. He is fluent in French, though he never studied a day after that night. He is also very, very tired. He spends his days drinking espresso and looking at his trembling hands, wondering exactly how many pages were in Yuriy Klimenko’s book—and how many hours he has left before the final chapter closes. AI responses may include mistakes. Learn more