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Yuri had a habit of scrolling through short videos. In this day and age, politicians couldn't afford to ignore public sentiment. News, trending tweets, short videos—you could choose not to care, but you had to know what was happening. For a long time, there wasn't much worth watching from Ukraine, until that day when a secretly recorded Ukrainian video suddenly went viral.
When he saw it, Vasya's rant against a corrupt state was still just a political commentary video gaining traction. Yuri watched it through, thinking, “Ukraine actually has young people like this,” then swiped to the next one, casually wondering if it was staged.
The video's rapid rise to fame was unexpected. During a dinner with the Polish ambassador, the latter jokingly asked Yuri what he thought of Vasya's views. Yuri knew this Mediterranean-haired fitness enthusiast well—a man of exceptional ability who kept his personal and professional lives strictly separate, never commenting on domestic or international politics in private. Yuri replied, half-jokingly, half-seriously, “Vasily Petrovich is still teaching. I think that speaks volumes about the freedom of speech in our country.”
The next day, he instructed his secretary to release a press statement themed around “Freedom of speech in our country.” He later used this line to deflect increasingly frequent, and increasingly less humorous, similar inquiries. Depending on the situation, he would add: “This showcases our system's democracy, though isolated instances of corruption happen—which only proves the concrete weight of the people's votes. As for corruption—I believe even your country cannot eradicate fraud and malpractice.” “I'm deeply moved. This video shows the sincere patriotism of Ukrainians. But patriotism shouldn't only be expressed through anger.” “It shows Ukraine has made such progress that Vasily Petrovich has nothing better to criticize.” Such platitudes. Questions came from both domestic and international sources. Foreign ones weren't surprising, but domestic ones—you'd think they'd resigned themselves to fate, yet they still manage to surprise you from time to time.
But that's as far as it goes. They'll like and share a nationalist rant's video, muster the courage to ask a question after praising it for hours. Within days, they'll return to their daily grind, drained by the struggle to survive, too weary to question why. He wondered vaguely how that internet celebrity would respond to his remarks. Who said it again? Patriotism is the ultimate clickbait strat.
But he never saw a rebuttal video from Vasya, the history teacher. Instead, he watched him talk to the media—nervous yet resolute. He lacked media training, clearly unaccustomed to the spotlight. His words were sharp but not extreme. Hmm, looks like his teaching credentials weren’t bought.
Alongside this news came the announcement of his presidential candidacy.
That damn clown.
Honestly, Yuri never imagined Vasya could actually win the presidency. True, his approval ratings skyrocketed, securing first place a full month before the election. But Vasya was just a poor teacher—the oligarchs could crush him with their little finger. And public opinion was just that—public opinion. When it came to national affairs, it served no purpose beyond attacking enemies.
Where would a penniless schoolteacher get campaign funds? Yuri ordered his people to gather every scrap of information on Vasya. As for himself—ah, welcoming the president was the prime minister’s sacred duty.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” he said with a smile. Watching the young man—his white shirt creased over his shoulders, a toilet magazine crumpled in his hand—his face a mix of confusion, wariness, and surprise, he thought: Kid, if this is the real you, you'll be back in a month, crawling back to your filthy hideout.
But Vasya kept defying his expectations. Stupid, naive, like a stubborn lamb trying to lead a flock of equally foolish yet more ignorant and dangerous sheep toward paradise amidst a pack of wolves. He deserved to be torn to shreds, yet somehow, despite stumbling along, he’d made inexplicable progress. He began to take this man called the President seriously, even entertaining the thought that perhaps he could offer some genuinely minor advice—of course, without jeopardizing the greater cause.
Fuck, with all those parasites around, you had to take me down? He was caught off guard, yet surprisingly, he felt little hatred.
From prison, from behind the scenes, he watched him more closely, waiting for his downfall. Or,—waiting for that one-in-a-million miracle.
But that miracle never came. Or rather, it might have been born when he was quietly taken from prison and embarked on that mad counterattack journey with him, when he truly saw light smiling at him. For that enchanting illusion, he schemed tirelessly, endured the torment of his fool bodyguards, even opened his home to him—God, he'd rather dance naked on TV than reveal his mother and lover's existence to others.
He watched the man who had once been adored by the masses walk in, feeling more anger and heartache than he had anticipated. “You're a good man,” the man had once told him. He was furious at how dejected yet unwary he looked upon entering, utterly indifferent to the prison environment and its inhabitants. He couldn't believe this fool remained oblivious to humanity's cruelty after surviving assassination attempts and betrayals: They'll kill you, you idiot!
“Bang!” for you, of all the wolves, they chose to take down the only one trying to do something right.
Tears and blood flowed together. In a haze of dizziness, he reached out to steady the other man, preventing his fall. Wiping his face, he bellowed for the guards before collapsing unconscious. This was for you who fought the wolves relentlessly only to end up like this.
He watched him closely, clinging like plaster, trying to convince himself that spilled blood was not the worst case scenario. For God's sake, he'd never worried so much about anyone.
He really was getting old enough to feel compassion.
He knew he wouldn't die, but never imagined Europe would be the one to spark his rebirth.
He understood instantly. Vasya hadn't abandoned the country, the people hadn't abandoned him, and even Europe recognized his resolve and worth.
Ukraine would be reborn. Ukraine would rise again.
He accepted the appointment with the fervor of a political newbie. Yet every time he imagined their meeting, beneath the eagerness and confidence lay an unignorable ache. He longed to remain Vasya's Prime Minister—the man who would lead this nation alongside him—not some EU representative for Ukraine, an outsider.
But it didn’t matter. Every time he came to fetch Vasya, it was him. Walking through the prison’s dim corridors, his footsteps echoed with hope. Each step brought him closer to that man.
History would record that I guided you to become Ukraine's king.
And even if he couldn't be Prime Minister, he could still secure a ministerial post. Vasya would give it to him. He was a soft-hearted fool, after all. Besides, he possessed abilities beyond the reach of others. As long as he wasn't foolish, he would arrange a position for him.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” he said, smiling at the man's utterly stunned expression.
Ukraine will be reborn. Ukraine will rise. And history will record that it was you and I who brought it to the dawn of glory.