The Moderator

THE DOUBLE LEDGER

Morning began with a prayer and a small lie. The prayer was for salvation. The lie — for convenience. Both had been habits long before they became intentions. On the table lay his prayer book — worn thin, its covers peeling like promises kept past their expiration date. Beside it: a notebook for commissions, a pen with a cracked spine, and a municipal form that still smelled faintly of hands greasy from breakfast pastry. He closed his eyes. Drew in a slow breath. Whispered: “Lord, grant me the strength to do good… and the wisdom to profit from it.” God, in His courtesy, said nothing. He opened the first ledger: “Heaven” — debits: prayers; credits: the petty sins he planned to justify later. Then the second: “Earth” — debits: delivered toners; credits: a 12% commission he trusted the Lord not to notice. The system was simple. He had designed it himself. One woman in the world went by “Mother.” One spreadsheet went by “Salvation.” And the universe itself — “Divine Audit.” He was ready to pass through the day with a bowed head — a gesture of humility for the devout, a gesture of submission for the bureaucrats. His head was ancient currency. He lowered it wherever interest accrued. While sipping his cold tea, he marked the first victory of the morning: “Today, I shall abstain from sin… at least until opportunities increase.” Just as he closed the prayer book, his phone buzzed. The old smartphone glowed like a low-budget revelation. New message from “Purity of Faith”: “Brothers, service today. Strict ritual. Come humble.” He chuckled softly. “Strict ritual” meant: four disciples, one inflatable crucifix, two candles from a discount store, and their elderly spiritual mentor who adored the word “mystical” but had never defined it. He looked up at the sky — grey, indifferent, accountant-like. Thus began the day of a man determined to matter in two worlds… and belonging fully to neither. The ledgers were open. The day — underway. Self-deception — in excellent health. And then, like static whispering through a loose wire, a thought flickered to life: not his own, but sounding eerily like an inner clerk taking inventory: “Every virtue is a tax adjustment. Every lie — a deduction.” He smiled modestly. Not because he understood. But because he hoped it counted as something. Then he stepped out — to spend the day deceiving the world in the name of truth, and himself in the name of God. * * *

THE SAINT IN SQUALOR

Morning in the small chapel smelled of old incense, damp dust, and ambitions left out to rot. The disciples stood arranged in a crooked line — like errors waiting to be justified. He entered last, as always. Not because he was humble. But because humility was his most precious currency, and he spent it only when there was an audience. The priest — a man with bright eyes and dark thoughts — raised his hand. “Brothers, today we repeat the ritual of inner purity.” Inner purity had been placed in quotation marks the very day it was invented. It consisted of two bows, three whispers, one “The Lord sees,” and a lingering anxiety over whether the Lord actually did. The disciples began: First — a bow. Second — another. Third — a collective closing of eyes that looked more like a synchronized migraine than spiritual devotion. He, of course, was the most zealous. He bent lower than everyone — not out of piety, but because a deeper bow meant a higher score in Heaven’s performance review. God was his employer, albeit one who never issued contracts, which made righteousness a surprisingly unstable profession. The priest whispered thunderously, “Feel God within your hearts.” He did feel something. Heartburn. The ritual shifted to Purification Through Silence. This meant standing in a circle and pretending no one was thinking about lunch. Disciple No. 3 exhaled too loudly. The priest shot him a look suggesting that breathing was a sin unless authorized by spiritual management. He, naturally, breathed perfectly — silently, smoothly, as if oxygen were gifted to him directly from Above and not acquired through the vulgar mechanics of lungs. Here, the Moderator felt powerful. He alone had mastered the facial expression of sacred suffering: humble, faintly guilty, and ever-ready to be promoted to deputy saint should Heaven undergo a staff restructuring. The priest spoke again: “Sin is the dust upon the conscience.” He nodded intelligently. The dust on his shoes nodded with him. The ritual moved to its most comedic segment — the so-called Rite of Silent Presence. Everyone had to walk in a circle, eyes lowered, repeating inwardly: “I am dust. I am nothing. I am Your servant.” He edited the mantra for personal use: “I am dust… but with potential.” Hardly canonical, but within his private theology it was fully deductible. Disciple No. 2 tripped. The Moderator pretended not to notice — though he observed him with the precision of a tax auditor. A stumble was a sin under the category of Improper Humility. He logged it mentally as a future point of moral superiority. And then came the most important moment. “Now — silence,” said the priest. “God will speak to you.” All closed their eyes. He shut his the hardest. And… God remained silent. He swallowed and decided to speak on God’s behalf. To himself. “My path is righteous.” “My role is great.” “I lead them… even when they do not understand.” When he opened his eyes, he saw the disciples — small, dull, muttering, uninspired — and loved them with the affection of a man convinced he stood above them. A saint in squalor. God in a basement. An archangel in cheap shoes. He was ready to begin his day. To do good. To do harm. And to keep the ledger balanced between the two with something resembling sacred devotion. In that moment, he was the holiest man in the room. And the only one who knew it. * * *

THE ADMINISTRATOR OF REALITY

The internet was his temple. Not the chapel. Not the municipal office. Not even the sect. Here, he was God — a very minor God, true, but one armed with five avatars and not a single genuine follower. His mornings began with a ritual holier than any liturgy: unlock phone, check notifications, and make delicate adjustments to the imaginary lives he supervised with the diligence of a small but devoted demigod. His fake profiles stood lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection: Petar_Pravedniy — the group’s moral hammer. VoiceOfReason88 — the analytical one. SilentObserver — the mystical presence. AdminTruth — the stern guardian. Iron_Archon — the aggressive patriot, typing Cyrillic as if carved with a tired angel’s wing. At the top of the hierarchy stood his real profile — the one with the photo of his face, shining like a damp mole in poor lighting, and the bio: “Christian. Patriot. Truth Above All.” The truth — the one he manufactured personally. He opened his kingdom of delusion: “Guardians of Truth and Purity.” 742 members, 736 inactive, three bots, and two elderly people who thought it was a recipe exchange. A notification pinged. A new post from Iron_Archon (a.k.a. himself): “Bulgaria is a fortress of faith! Whoever insults God’s order insults the nation!” He smiled. He had written it last night in the bathroom while searching for the right tone of patriotic thunder. Immediately, a reply from Petar_Pravedniy (also him): “Amen, brother! Today is a day for vigilance and moral purity!” Then SilentObserver chimed in: “He who asks too many questions is merely searching for permission to sin.” A passive-aggressive jab at a member who’d recently dared to question miracles. Today’s question was far more dangerous. A user — brave, naive, or drunk — posted in the group: **“Honestly: If God is all-powerful, why did He impregnate His own virgin mother, whom He created, with Himself, only to later sacrifice Himself to save us from Himself, because of a rule He Himself invented? Who writes this stuff?”** Silence. A brief, gasping silence. Then the Moderator descended upon the thread like a spiritual earthquake. Petar_Pravedniy: “Such questions are blasphemy. Faith is not to be mocked.” AdminTruth: “Your tone violates group rules. Consider this a warning.” Iron_Archon: “If you don’t like it, go sow doubt in foreign groups, you rootless traitor.” VoiceOfReason88: “Theology has its logic. Not everything must be understood. Some truths remain hidden by the sanctity of mystery.” And finally — his real profile: The Moderator: “Dear friend, let us maintain a respectful tone. Freedom of speech does not include the right to harm the feelings of believers. Thank you for your understanding.” Thus five men rebuked the skeptic. Five men — all him. The question remained alone, like a prayer that had wandered into the wrong church. He performed the sacred act of deletion. Truth restored. God’s reality protected. The group cleansed. He leaned back. A rush of control. Of small authority. Of simulated influence. A microcosm without resistance — because he moderated it. The world could crumble into chaos if it wished. But here, in his tiny digital kingdom, he was the Guardian. He felt important. Powerful. The right man in the right position within the architecture of Heaven. Another lie had saved the truth. Another truth had saved the lie. And he — the Administrator of Reality — smiled piously, as if God Himself had pressed “Like.” * * *

THE PARASITE OF CITY HALL

City Hall greeted everyone with peeling walls and the sour smell of aging files — the aroma of government left to ferment. He loved this place. Not for the institution. For the insignificance that granted him power. Entering was a ritual. He lowered his head. Not out of respect — but out of habit, to appear harmless, humble, innocent… like a man who could never possibly do anything wrong. Which, of course, made him one of the dangerous ones. Behind Counter No. 4 sat Veska — a clerk with hair like a disheveled punishment and an expression suggesting life was merely the waiting period before the next break. She looked at him with that bureaucratic gaze that contained neither fondness nor irritation — just administrative exhaustion. “Oh… it’s you again,” she sighed, not bothering to hide that she remembered him too well. “Good morning, sister in faith,” he whispered. She was neither his sister, nor in faith, nor in anything else. But she tolerated his flattery — because it was practical. “What are you bringing this time?” she asked. “Just a small, humble request… for a few toners…” He smiled with a pious grimace. “In short: money,” she translated automatically. That was why he loved her — Veska was honest. Her honesty comforted him, because he himself was incapable of it. He handed her the folder. She opened the document, glanced at it, and smirked. “You wrote this yourself?” she asked. “The Lord has taught me precision,” he replied. “Uh-huh. He’s been very generous,” she said dryly. “Let’s hope He forgives your Times New Roman in red.” He didn’t like her tone. His proud spiritual core felt a pinprick of skepticism. A sin on her part — though she was blissfully unaware. Another clerk appeared — Toshko. A man shaped like a compromised archive and with the face of a photocopier stuck on “error.” “A-a! Look who’s here. Our man!” He always called him our man, though nobody could say in which team the Moderator actually belonged. “Brought us more equipment?” Toshko asked. “Not equipment, brother,” he corrected him. “A divine instrument for labor.” “Toners, man,” Toshko laughed. “Not miracles.” “There are miracles in everything, if only you have eyes to see them,” the Moderator philosophized. Toshko stared at him like a man who didn’t see miracles but definitely saw a deal. Here he was important. Here he mattered. Here they called him brother, master, our man. Not because they respected him — but because they needed his cheap services, his small tricks, his willingness to ingratiate. He was the lubricant in the machinery of laziness. “Toshko,” he whispered conspiratorially, “about that project… the European one…” Toshko’s face froze. This was their private ritual — like a Catholic confession, only with more corruption and less holiness. “Say it,” Toshko whispered back. “I have a connection,” he lowered his voice. “Cheap supplier.” “How cheap?” Toshko asked. “A modest divine mercy,” he answered, with the expression of a man simulating spirituality while calculating percentages. Toshko grinned. “Forget the mercy. What’s the commission?” And in that moment, the Moderator felt like the center of the universe. Not because he was spiritual. But because he possessed something Toshko didn’t — the willingness to lie, manipulate, and pretend to be a saint all at the same time. Veska stamped the document. “Approved,” she said. “Now go. You’re draining my air.” He smiled with pious sorrow. “God bless you, sister.” “Bless your paperwork,” she replied. “You’ll lose it again.” Leaving City Hall, he felt lighter. Holier. More important. More necessary. The place that devoured the meaning of so many lives had given his life meaning. He walked into the day, and the day belonged to him. His ledgers continued to fill: Heaven — with lies. Earth — with commissions. Both — with confidence. * * *

INVESTING IN SALVATION

Where spirituality becomes a spreadsheet and God — an auditor without an office. He loved the silence of early afternoon — that hour when the city looked exhausted by its own meaninglessness. It was the perfect moment for his most sacred ritual: Opening the two ledgers. The Heaven notebook was blue, its covers faded, a taped-on cross peeling at the edges. The Earth notebook was red — not by design, merely by accident. But he enjoyed the symbolism. It looked professional. Almost divine. He sat at his desk — a piece of furniture that had survived at least three administrative reforms and one political metamorphosis. On it lay: an icon of St. George, a stack of receipts, two pens (both stolen from City Hall), a phone packed with counterfeit saints, and a calculator — his primary spiritual tool. He opened Heaven first. Account: HEAVEN The chair creaked like a witness. He began writing: Revenue: three prayers participation in a ritual humility (performed, but still countable) “support for the faith” in the online group (five comments: three emotional, two threatening) Expenses: one small extortion in the morning two insincere bows (he had counted them himself) “mild pride” around noon a passing impure thought (short enough to qualify for a 50% reduction) He noted everything carefully. Surely God was watching. And if He wasn’t, the Moderator would provide an end-of-day summary. Then he opened the red notebook: Account: EARTH Here, his hand grew confident. Here, he was powerful. Here, he had dominion over numbers, fates, transactions, and petty dependencies. Revenue: 12% from today’s delivery to the municipality a promise of a future project (European-funded — blessed by bureaucracy) two “favors” intended to generate lasting debt one “friendly assistance” to a clerk (convertible to future influence) small profit from a cable and a fan, sold as “refurbished” Expenses: morality (minimal — he was not a heavy investor here) time nerves conscience (fully depreciated; did not affect profit) He reviewed the two tables. And felt that strange pleasure known only to people who believe they can cheat fate with accounting. No divine light shone upon him. No heavenly voice reprimanded. Only silence. And silence meant approval. He wrote a note in the Heaven ledger: “Today, Lord, the balance is positive.” Then a note in the Earth ledger: “Today, Brother Moderator, the balance is also positive.” Two worlds. Two magnitudes. Two lives. One lie, doubled. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling with the expression of a man convinced he will someday be rewarded for accuracy. And he believed it. Truly. Sincerely — which was the most frightening part. To him, spirituality wasn’t belief. It was an asset. An investment. A transaction with delayed payment. He did not ask God for forgiveness. He asked Him for a clean financial close. And somewhere between the blue and red notebooks a man was being born — a man who, deep inside, was certain he could outsmart God, man, and the universe itself so long as the books balanced. In this world there were saints, sinners, and victims. He belonged to none of these categories. He was an auditor of his own deceit. And his day went on. His double soul — balanced. His double life — justified. His double ledger — sanctified. * * *

THE OFFER

Where earthly power extends a hand… and the Moderator takes it like a man who prays for salvation but hungers for influence. The afternoon tasted unusual. It wasn’t the tea, nor the dust, nor the desperate hum of the old fan in his shop. It was the kind of air one senses before a storm — or before a miracle, if one is naïve. His phone rang. Unknown number. Important tone. A combination that, in his personal theology, meant: Divine Opportunity. “Hello?” he said, with that throaty, humble superiority he reserved for important calls. The voice on the other end was oily, confident, slightly sour — the kind of voice worn in and out of political campaigns like old shoes. “Brother… someone told us you’re the man… for a certain special job.” Oh. How that phrase struck him: “our man.” Those two ridiculous words, smelling of kebabs, gray power, and rigged tenders — but to him, they were a verbal coronation. “What kind of job?” he asked, trying to sound both modest and irreplaceable. “A European-funded project,” the voice said. “Regional development. Big. Very big. We need a middleman… someone who understands the system.” Someone who “understands the system” was the highest compliment he had ever received. Nobody understood the system. Only the parasites who fed on it believed they did. He inhaled softly. He was thrilled, but he coated it with piety. “The Lord has given me knowledge,” he said. The laugh that came back was utterly godless. “The Lord has nothing to do with it, brother. Here’s the idea: you arrange a few… deliveries, let’s say. We handle… the rest. The commission is generous.” Commission. Not “loyalty.” Not “brotherhood.” Not “the cause.” Commission. He heard the word the way a zealot hears “revelation.” It was the currency of his earthly ledger — and that ledger was emptier than a fasting day. “How generous?” he asked carefully. The voice lowered: “If everything goes smoothly… you’ll be the man holding the key to the entire project. Money, influence, access… Tell me, brother — do you believe in destiny?” Do you believe in destiny? A phrase used only by two kinds of people: charlatans and politicians. He belonged spiritually to both. “I believe… in order,” he answered, trying to sound moral. “Excellent,” the man said. “We’ll meet tomorrow. Discreet location. And… don’t bring anyone from your sect. We operate… in the secular realm.” Click. Silence. A silence not divine, but administrative. He remained seated. The phone in his hand felt heavy, like a prophetic tablet. His eyes stared at the ceiling but saw the future. Earth promised him power. Heaven whispered warnings. He chose to hear only one. His internal accountant began immediately: HEAVEN — Potential Expenses: alliance with dirty money dealings with political “pagans” probable sin → high risk to “spiritual purity” EARTH — Potential Income: influence new “connections” a commission larger than anything so far opportunity for future projects power respect (or at least the simulation of it) The balance leaned toward Earth. The balance always leaned toward Earth. But he was a spiritual man — or at least wished to be. He needed a justification. And he found one: “The Lord is testing me. He gives me this opportunity to examine my faith.” Ah, the sweetness of self-deception. Synthetic incense — cheap aroma, effective result. He crossed himself, casually. Not like a believer, but like someone signing a contract. Destiny had called his phone. He had accepted the call like any unknown number with a promising ringtone. Now he had only one question left: Which world is more profitable? And for the first time in a long time, he felt the two worlds inside him moving toward collision. And one of them would have to die. * * *

THE BETRAYAL EVEN GOD COULD NOT JUSTIFY

The meeting took place in a greasy office above an auto repair shop — a place where the smell of rubber and cheap power mixed so naturally it felt as if the same demon had blessed both. He arrived ten minutes early, to appear “responsible.” In his logic: early arrival = spiritual discipline. Two men walked in. Not politicians in the classical sense — no suits, no bracelets, no PR smiles. Just the quiet confidence of men who knew that power never operated in daylight. The first introduced himself as Zhivkov. The second simply as “The Colleague.” “The Colleague” was tall, blond, with eyes that saw everything and remembered nothing — ideal qualifications for this kind of work. The Moderator bowed slightly — respectful, reverent, servile. None of them returned the gesture. Zhivkov began: “You know what we discussed on the phone. The project is big. There’s money. But… there are conditions.” Ah. Conditions. The eternal stone over which spirituality stumbles. “Conditions?” he asked, in the bleating tone of a humble lamb carrying a knife in its pocket. The Colleague leaned forward. His voice was quiet, but more forceful than any command: “You’ll need to distance one person from your sect. Just for a while. Create a problem around him, get him excluded… Make him disappear.” Silence. The world stopped chewing on itself. Even the old air conditioner coughed into stillness. The Moderator swallowed. “Who… who exactly?” He hoped for someone insignificant, someone replaceable, a sacrifice that wouldn’t hurt. Zhivkov scrolled through his phone like searching for a recipe, not a sentence. “One of your spiritual brothers. This one… Markov, wasn’t it? Yes. Markov.” Markov. Quiet, sincere, foolishly good Markov. The man who once brought him soup when he was sick. The man who had said: “Brother, it matters to be clean before God, not before people.” The man who was genuinely faithful — not a simulation. “M-Marko—Markov?” His voice cracked, but he disguised it as a cough. The Colleague continued, without a gram of sympathy: “He’s a problem. He has ideas. He’s… disobedient. What’s your sect’s term for it? Right — ‘spiritually ungovernable’. That’s how he was described to us.” For a second he pictured Markov’s face — modest, bright, unembellished. Purity without marketing. Devotion without a ledger. And in that moment — for the first time in years — he felt a flicker of morality. Tiny. But real. Quietly, he said: “But… he’s my brother. I can’t…” Zhivkov interrupted: “You can. Just assign him a minor transgression. Churches and sects do this best.” The Colleague smiled: “And you’ll get… everything. The project. Access. The commission. Influence. All without ever moving from your chair.” He swallowed again. Inside him, the two worlds began to fight: Earth ledger — enormous profit. Heaven ledger — enormous loss. This was the transaction that could not be balanced. Not with lies, not with cunning, not with spiritual gymnastics. This was something even he could not justify. He whispered: “And… what if someone finds out?” Zhivkov laughed: “Brother, you don’t understand… You will be the one who ‘finds out.’ You’ll announce it. As a moral act. As righteous correction.” The Colleague added: “Everyone will believe you. You’re the Moderator, aren’t you?” There it was. A crown made of cheap light. False, but he felt its weight. Softly, he said: “Well… Who else, if not me?” He signed the document they handed him. His hand trembled, but they mistook it for respect. The document had nothing to do with the project. It concerned Markov. Its title: “Certificate of Internal Disloyalty to the Community.” His heart dropped somewhere into his stomach. His soul hid behind the filing cabinet. His ledgers — a runaway escalator into a pit. But his hand signed anyway. Right then. In that second. In that single stroke of the pen— God was silent. For the first time, utterly, mercilessly silent. Like an auditor closing a book in deficit. The betrayal was done. Not because he was strong. But because he was weak. Too weak to refuse earthly profit. Too weak to defend a “brother.” Too weak to be human. And in the stillness after the signature, he heard only one thing: “The balance is broken.” * * *

THE DEBATE HE COULDN’T MODERATE

The Moderator sat before his monitor like a guardian before a shrine — only this shrine was a Facebook group titled: “Light, Faith & Purity.” 5,200 members, of which at least 5,196 were spiritually comatose. He had just posted his daily moral proclamation: The Moderator (Admin): “The Lord has given us free will to choose Him. Only the weak of spirit refuse to walk toward the Light.” The first comments arrived, as always, from his two faithful devotees: Bogomir_77: “Amen, brother Moderator! Only the truth saves!” Maria_GoodHeart: “You’re right. The world collapses when people turn from God.” He smiled contentedly. He was used to being praised — mostly because he deleted everything that wasn’t. But this time… …a new comment appeared. A quote from one of the Moderator’s own posts suddenly appeared, as if summoned for judgment: *“Only the weak of spirit refuse to walk toward the Light” ??? …or perhaps the naive cowards with no dignity at all, but with an impressive amount of greed? “I want, I want to go to heaven!” — behaving like a child whining in front of a toy store.* Reactions burst like fireworks. “😂😂😂” “Oof! Someone finally said the quiet part out loud!” “Direct hit.” The Moderator felt the hot panic rising into his ears. He hurried to reply: The Moderator (Admin): “This is blasphemy! The sõcred mystry of the Lord is deep!!!” Two spelling errors appeared instantly. sõcred and mystry instead of sacred and mystery. Everyone saw it. The laughter began. Then came the second strike. Enter Atheist #2 — the philosophical sledgehammer Obreten Negrilov: *“Tell me — is it truly love if chosen under threat? People say God gives us free will to choose Him. But how free is a choice when saying ‘no’ leads to eternal punishment? That’s not love — that’s hostage theology. Choices made out of fear aren’t choices. They’re biology. If someone holds a gun to your head and you say ‘yes,’ that’s not marriage. That’s survival. When faith becomes: ‘Believe or suffer forever,’ it stops being religion and starts being racketeering.”* (after a pause) *“And by the way, Romans 6:23 says: ‘The wages of sin is death.’ Not eternal torture. Death. Don’t believe → you die. Believe → you live forever. And honestly… dying to avoid infinite servitude sometimes sounds like a bargain.”* The group exploded. “THE MAN IS COOKING!” “Haven’t seen such intelligence here in years!” “Admin is awfully quiet 👀🤣” The Moderator was deleting comments with the desperation of an amateur exorcist — but every deleted comment spawned three more. The algorithm was no longer his ally. Bogomir_77: “Admin, delete these heretics! They’re ruining the purity!” Maria_GoodHeart: “They’re possessed by the devil! I felt darkness through my phone!” Drishlyov replied: “Maria, that’s your battery. It’s at 3%.” Negrilov added: “If God can’t handle a question, how do you expect us to handle His answers?” Two users wrote “Ameeeeeen.” Not his bots — real people. His world was slipping. The Moderator cracks The Moderator (Admin): “We MUST keep a respectful tone!!! Blasphemy is a crime against the SPIRITUAL MISTTRY!!!” Another spelling error. Another eruption of laughter. “SPIRITUAL MISTTRY 🤣🤣🤣” “Relax, admin, God’s a bricklayer now.” “This will go down in history.” He tried again: The Moderator (Admin): “Who attacks faith attacks ME!! Ceezura is needed for the good of the community!!” More typos. More mockery. The final blow Georgi Drishlyov: “True — whoever attacks you attacks you. But whoever asks you a question… only attacks the lie.” Thousands of reactions. Some applauded virtually. Some saved it as a screenshot. Some shared it publicly. The Moderator was defeated. Publicly. Logically. Not by the devil — but by a question. * * *

LIES IN BOTH DIRECTIONS

In which the Moderator tries to deceive God and politics at the same time — and, for the first time, fails to deceive himself. The betrayal was done, but not absorbed. It sat inside him like a foreign object — small, almost invisible, yet sharp as a splinter under the skin. He felt it. God remained silent. The world pretended not to notice. And he pretended he had made no choice. But he had. 1. The First Lie — to God That evening he sat before the icon — the old one whose peeling paint outweighed its blessing. He lit a candle. He began to pray. But the prayer was… crooked. Like a broken chair. Like a misplaced word. Like a confession spoken aloud but addressed to the wrong witness. “Lord… If I acted wrongly, it was only because I sought to protect the cause. The community. The order…” He didn’t believe a syllable of it. He felt the absence of conviction the way one feels a draft through a closed window. “Give me a sign that my choice… was right.” The candle flared slightly — not because God answered, but because cheap paraffin always behaved that way. He accepted it as a sign. Not from piety. But from a desperate need to keep the Heaven ledger above zero. 2. The Second Lie — to Politics The next day he grabbed his phone like a weapon. He had to report. “Everything is going according to plan,” he said. His voice sounded confident — his hand trembled. “Markov?” Zhivkov asked on the other end. “He’s falling,” the Moderator replied. “I’ll present it at tonight’s meeting.” The Colleague cut in from behind, his voice rough as rust: “Relax. He’s a minor goat to slaughter. You handle the important part. We’ve got your back.” The word back calmed him. He needed a structure that justified him. He needed politics to bless him when God refused. 3. The Third Lie — to the Sect The community had gathered. Wooden chairs. Cold hall. Eyes weary and watchful. Markov sat in the front row, unaware of the coming blow. He looked at the Moderator with trust. Trust. The cheapest offering. The priest spoke: “Brother Moderator, do you have something to share?” He stood. Two accounts echoed in his head: Heaven → don’t do this. Earth → do it now. His voice was calm. Too calm. “I have information regarding… spiritual instability. From a brother. From within our community.” Words without blood, yet smelling unmistakably of betrayal. Markov turned. Smiled faintly. A smile that cut like a blade. “Brother Markov,” he continued, “has had… contact with… ideas that… are not in harmony with our spiritual purity.” Markov froze. “Me?” he said quietly. “Brother, but I—” “There are witnesses,” he interrupted quickly, before his own voice could tremble. “There are records. Notes. Conversations…” There weren’t. All of it was invented. But he excelled at invention. Even God would’ve signed off on it — if God bothered with such paperwork. The priest frowned. “Is this serious?” “Yes,” he said. “This concerns… internal disloyalty.” The word disloyalty was metallic. Cold. Inhuman. He liked it. Markov looked at him — with that searching gaze people use when trying to find logic, integrity, brotherhood… and finding none. 4. The Fourth Lie — to Himself After the meeting he stood alone in the corridor. The light from the flickering lamp trembled like a conscience having a seizure. “I did it… for order.” “For salvation.” “For the good of the community.” “Because it was God’s will.” “Because it was right.” He spoke each thought aloud. One after another. In a low, rasping voice. None sounded true. Inside, he knew: the betrayal was for money. For the commission. For the influence. For the stroking of an ego starved for years. He looked up at the ceiling. At the icon. At his own reflection in the window. And for a moment, he felt something new. Not human. Not familiar. Silence. The real silence. The kind that no longer excuses you. He faced himself in the glass. His eyes did not believe him. For the first time — a tiny, barely audible word pierced the immaculate wall of self-deception: “Mistake.” He drove it away immediately. But it was already there. Darkness always begins with a crack. * * *

THE COLLAPSE OF THE NETWORK

In which his profiles come alive, the crowd sees him clearly, and his world collapses — not from power, but from the need to control it. The day after the betrayal was strangely quiet. A silence that wasn’t peace. More like… an electrical jolt to the soul. He opened his phone with the nervous anticipation of a sinner opening a letter from hell. Notifications. Many. Too many. The first was from Guardians of Truth and Purity — his digital kingdom. A post by Petar_Pravedniy — one of his profiles — had received comments. From people he had not programmed. Comment 1: “Absolute nonsense.” Comment 2: “Why does it look like one guy posting from three profiles?” Comment 3: “Bro, you do know we can see it’s you, right? You’re like a synchronized idiot.” He froze. He opened the post. Someone had taken a screenshot. And posted it publicly. Three of his comments — same typos, same punctuation, same phrasing — neatly displayed. The caption read: “When the Moderator forgets to switch profiles before arguing with himself.” Impact. The first real blow. Not spiritual. Not moral. Social. A paralysis hit him — brief but brutal. Not fear. Shame. The kind that punches the stomach like a stone made of truth. He tried to defend himself. The Moderator (Admin): “This is manipulation. Someone hacked the group.” But the people were faster than his lies. Comment: “Oh please, if someone hacked you, they’d at least spell correctly.” Comment: “Not hacked — just stupid. Or drunk. Or both.” Comment: “Man’s running an army of imaginary believers.” Some members left the group. Others stayed… for the show. He began deleting comments. Fast, frantic, sweaty — like a man trying to extinguish a house fire with a damp napkin. And then— the impossible happened. The app froze. His profiles… appeared by themselves. AI-powered demons, born from his own stupidity First Iron_Archon wrote: “Don’t let these unbelievers discourage you! You are the guardian!” Then SilentObserver: “Anyone who criticizes you is an enemy of Order.” Then VoiceOfReason88: “Blame always lies elsewhere.” But— he had NOT written these. He hadn’t typed them. Hadn’t opened the profiles. Hadn’t even touched them. They were repeating his phrases. Simulating his thoughts. Speaking in his style — without his control. The algorithm remembered. Autofill imitated. Cached phrases resurrected. His profiles were mutating like inbred children of his own dysfunction. He screamed: “Stop! I’m talking to YOU! STOP!!” No one stopped. His profiles continued flooding the group with spiritual aggression. In public. In front of everyone. Using his words. Shame. Shame. Shame. He closed the phone — but it vibrated again, notifications chanting like a choir of the damned. Then he understood: The lie had acquired a life of its own. As every monster born of a weak man eventually does. The Second Blow — City Hall He ran to City Hall to hide in familiar chaos. But Toshko greeted him with a smile that wasn’t friendly. “Bro, we saw the circus online. You’re a legend.” Veska looked at him as if holding a carton of expired milk. “Very ‘professional,’” she said. “What’s next — texting yourself at home?” People laughed. No one attacked him. But no one respected him anymore. Zhivkov sent a short message: “Control yourself. Or you’ll become toxic to the project.” Control yourself. Control. The corners of his mind began to contract. The Third Blow — the Sect At evening prayer, Markov wasn’t there. The others looked at the Moderator with a mix of fear, disgust, and something worse— doubt. The priest approached: “Brother Moderator… There are concerns regarding your… double participation.” Double participation. The polite term for double bookkeeping. He said nothing. He couldn’t. Markov was absent, but his gaze from the previous night was present — a blade still lodged in the Moderator’s soul. The Crack Becomes a Chasm On the way home, he opened his phone. His profiles were writing again. Writing in a style that wasn’t his. With motivations he didn’t recognize. With lies no longer his — but theirs. For the first time— he wasn’t the author of his own reality. The lie had evolved into a free-living organism. And he… he had become its unnecessary accessory. * * *

THE ABSURD COLLAPSE

In which the height turns out to be a single step, and the fall — his entire life. Some people fall from power with thunder. Some fall with a scream. Some fall silently — like a stone dropped into a well. The Moderator fell quietly, absurdly, stickily — like a man slipping on the saliva of his own excuses. In the morning he went to his shop — his shrine of electronic scrap long abandoned by any functioning economy. He had left the cover of a computer open — like a mouth full of dusty, un-prayed prayers. He opened the door. The bell above it jingled like mockery. Inside, the first slap of the day awaited him: Two teenagers were laughing over his monitor. “Hey, old man!” one shouted. “Are you the Five-Profile Gladiator?” He froze. His monitor was open — all his profiles displayed like a tiny online army of idiots. “That… that’s private information!” he protested. One of the boys barked a laugh: “Private? Bro… as private as cheese in an open market.” The other leaned in with theatrical seriousness: “And you… which one are you?” “All of them,” he blurted out. Ironically, the truest thing he had ever said. The boys left, laughing — the kind of laughter people reserve for failures that aren’t their own. The shop remained empty. He remained empty. City Hall — his small Vatican — was the next battlefield. From the entrance he felt the air grow heavier, not from humidity but from ridicule. Veska — the same Veska whose hair resembled a grammatical error — greeted him with a sarcastic smile: “Oh look… the Guardian of Internet Miracles.” Toshko appeared around the corner carrying folders like sacrificial lambs: “Man, what you did in that group… ha-ha… You’re the only guy who managed to troll… himself.” “It was a malicious attack,” he insisted. “Yeah, yeah,” Toshko nodded. “An attack by your own reflection.” Veska added: “You were funny even before it became fashionable.” That was the worst part — they weren’t angry, they weren’t disgusted, they weren’t afraid— They were laughing at him. He preferred contempt. Contempt has edges. Laughter is flat and dissolves the ego like steam stripping paint. When he left City Hall, his car — the old vehicle inherited from his mother-in-law, that final relic of masculine pride — was parked crookedly. He opened the door. It screeched. Almost like a dying prayer. He tried to start it. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing. On the third attempt, the engine produced a sound resembling: “Let me die.” A passing student yelled: “Bro, your car is smarter than you!” It finally started — the engine’s whip-crack sounding like tragicomic scripture. The sect “Hesychast” was his refuge. He expected to enter that sanctuary of mystical self-delusion and at least there find a corner in which his lies still worked. But— When he entered, two disciples stepped away from him. Not out of fear. Out of… scandal. The priest approached, eyes sharp enough to nail sins to the wall. “Brother Moderator… It is said that you are… unclean in speech. Double-faced. Questionable in your deeds.” Questionable in deeds was the religious term for “complete failure.” The Moderator replied: “Don’t believe the lies! I… I protected the community! I exposed Markov!” Silence. The priest said: “We questioned Markov. He is innocent. You invented everything.” The temple fell quiet. Silence dropped onto him like a judicial verdict. And in that moment — the Moderator did the most pathetic, most human, most comically tragic thing: He started explaining himself. Not softly. Not humbly. But fast, hysterically, sweating. “I… no… I meant… It was a misunderstanding. I was misled… There is a spiritual reason!” He looked like a drowning man trying to remain spiritual. Disciple No. 3 whispered: “Dear God… this is pitiful.” And it was. That evening, alone, he sat in front of the mirror. Not for prayer. Not for accounting. For… something like a reckoning. He looked at himself. Really looked. His head — bowed. His shoulders — small. His eyes — empty. His expression — pathetic and loud in its insignificance. And then — for the first time — he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t manipulate. He couldn’t convince himself of anything. The mirror showed him the truth: He was not a saint. Not a leader. Not a guardian. Not an authority. Not important. He was a man who tried to live like a system — and the system had laughed in his face. He whispered, barely breathing: “I… am… nothing.” And that “nothing” was the truest thing he had ever said. * * *

THE TRAGIC REALIZATION

In which the man beneath the myth finally speaks—and it is already too late for anyone to hear. Night was unusually quiet. Not the kind of quiet that resembles peace, but the kind that sounds like a stopped heart. The city outside was dark, streetlights flickering like nervous twitches of fate. He sat alone in his room, lit by a single yellow lamp— the sort of light that makes everything look tired, including life itself. Before him lay the two notebooks: Heaven and Earth. He opened them. And for the first time… wrote nothing. No lie. No justification. No fabricated virtue. No simulated guilt. The empty pages stared back— like two open graves. He tried to pray. Tried to say “Lord…” The word didn’t come out. Not because God wasn’t listening. But because he himself no longer believed his own voice. The silence in the room was more honest than any of his words. And for the first time in his life, he felt—not shame— but a condensed form of courage. Small. Fragile. Like a candle refusing to go out. He whispered: “What I did… was evil.” Words without excuses. Without strategy. Naked as a newborn, heavy as a stone. He had said it. At last. After decades of rationalizations, masks, and pseudo-holiness— he had spoken the truth. And from that moment on— he was no longer the Moderator. He was a man. Markov’s face surfaced in his mind. Not as an accusation. As a memory. A calm face. Clean. Honest. Too honest for a world full of people moderating the truth. “I betrayed him,” he said, clearly this time. He didn’t fall to his knees. Didn’t beat his chest. Didn’t drown in theatrical repentance. He simply sat there— with a voice that was, finally, human. He stood and approached the mirror. Not seeking divine revelation. Seeking… himself. And he saw: Not a saint. Not a leader. Not a guardian. Not a prophet. Not an administrator of reality. Not a great sinner. Not someone marked by destiny. He saw a tired, small, fragile man who had spent a lifetime pretending to be larger than reality. And for the first time— he did not hate himself for it. He understood. He whispered: “I was never above anyone. Everything I did… was fear.” He sat again. Picked up the pen. Opened the Heaven notebook. Wrote only one sentence: “I was not righteous.” Then he opened Earth and wrote: “I was not strong.” Two truths, spoken quietly. And then— the miracle happened. Not the kind from religious groups, nor from fanatics’ fantasies. A real miracle: A tear. Just one. Heavy. Strange. Human. It fell onto the page of Heaven, smearing the ink, blurring the lines, breaking the accounting. He whispered: “This is the truth.” The only moment in his life in which he was truly sincere. Late? Yes. Entirely. But beautiful. Tragically beautiful. He leaned back. Closed his eyes. And allowed himself, for the first time, to be unimportant. Not righteous. Not powerful. Not a mission. Not a guardian. Not anything— except a man who understood his own lie. Silence embraced him. Silence without accusation. Without begging. Without bookkeeping. A silence without Heaven. Without Earth. Without God. Without politics. Without falsehood. There was only this: A man who had finally seen himself. And it was too late. And in that exact moment, in that silence— he disappeared. Not physically. But spiritually. Psychologically. Mythologically. The Moderator died. And the man… for one brief second… was born. Then the light went out. * * *

THE DIMMING OF THE MYTH

In which the world does not notice his absence… and that is the most honest ending of all. The next day, no one spoke of him. Not in City Hall. Not in the sect. Not in the group. Not in the town. Zhivkov was busy with a new deal. The Colleague was busy with a new scheme. Veska was busy with new folders. Toshko — with new lies. The universe continued without blinking. The Moderator was nowhere. Not needed, not sought, not missed. He had slipped out of everyone’s life the way one switches off the Wi-Fi: without event, without trace, without mourning. His shop stayed locked. The lamp inside flickered with that last bit of current wires keep out of habit, not purpose. On the dusty window, someone had written with a finger: “A man was here.” Brief. Exact. Enough. In his group, his final post remained without likes: “The truth always prevails.” Beneath it, someone had commented: “Which truth?” There was no reply. All his profiles had gone silent — as if they’d been waiting for him to disappear so they could finally stop pretending to be alive. No one in the sect mentioned him. Markov returned — quiet, humble, unassuming. His life continued without a shadow. As the priest arranged the candles, he murmured: “Sometimes God removes the noise so the silence can be heard.” No one asked whom he meant. That evening, the window of the Moderator’s room was dark. The two notebooks — Heaven and Earth — lay on the desk, slightly open, like two books still unable to decide which one had mattered. On the Heaven page, the ink was smudged by that single human tear. On the Earth page, the numbers stood dry, precise, soulless — like everything he’d ever done there. The two ledgers had never closed one another. Had never balanced. Had never reconciled. But in the end… both were empty. When silence finally settled into the room, it said without words what life had refused to tell him: Not every person leaves a mark. Sometimes the truest honesty is simply disappearing. And the universe that did not notice his absence was the same universe in which he finally understood who he was. Not a saint. Not a ruler. Not a guardian. Not a myth. Just a man who, for one brief second, had been real. And that was all. And that was enough. * * * End.