I woke up: beside me was a naked woman, saying something in Polish. Around me rang bells and old-fashioned scenery, as if I had fallen into the past. Who she is remains a mystery, but more important is this: who am I myself? And even more important—what to do right now. There’s almost no time: people are already coming for me, they want to kill me.
Should I break off and run? Should I fight? Or accept it, hoping it will all end and I’ll be thrown back to my time?
From the first minutes, there are decisions that determine life and death, and blood on my hands appears far too quickly. But if Дмитрий Іванович were in my place, he’d have shouted: “I’m not your Boris!!!” and rushed at the killers with a halberd. And I’ll only whisper, so that no one can hear: “I’m not Lzhedmitry!”