Finding my Element then Loosing it All Because of Biden's Office | Autobiography Part 2

The day I was let go from Delta Express felt like someone pulled the rug out from under me. I wasn’t exactly thriving there—$800 in basic salary and a few scraps of commission—but it was enough to keep me afloat. That paycheck covered my essentials: food, rent, my regular indulgence in booze and cigarettes, and even the occasional bit of change to send home to my family. Then, in one swift decision, it was all gone.

My manager seemed almost apologetic, as if firing me was harder for him than it was for me. I wasn’t buying it. At that moment, it felt like the world had ended. I stared at my future as if it was some vast, empty void. But funny how the worst things often turn out to be the best.

One month later, desperate and vulnerable, I got a call that changed everything. A company in Kyiv needed Account Managers for their sales team. The catch? It was a call center operation pushing shady crypto investments to unwitting victims across the globe. I knew what it was, but I didn’t care. Desperation has a way of killing your moral compass.

I packed my bags and left Odessa behind—the basketball court where I perfected my dribble, the golden beaches that made the city feel like paradise, and my sanctuary "Hostel Babushka" on Malaya Arnautskaya Street, my home for as long as I could remember. Kyiv felt like a shot at redemption.

Training lasted two weeks. The trainers stunk like confidence, hyping us up with the promise of big money and bigger opportunities. I absorbed it all, laser-focused on making this work. For two weeks, I was the most diligent student in that dingy office. I didn’t care if the job felt slimy. It paid the bills.

By the end of our first month on the phones, my entire training group was gone—fired for not hitting their numbers. But I stayed. I was the last man standing, closing two deals a week on average. My reward? A $900 salary and a $50 bonus for every sale. It wasn’t glamorous, but I was thriving.

I moved from a Kyiv construction people hostel in Dimeevska Metro station into a company apartment on the 9th floor of a 13-story building near the Zoloti Vorota metro station. It was a legendary life, and it was all mine.

Then, everything fell apart.

The War Begins

It was a bright morning like any other when one of the senior managers intercepted us at the metro station. His face was pale, his words hurried. "The war has started," he said.

War? I had barely followed the news. The geopolitical tension always felt like background noise, something distant and irrelevant to my life. But now, it was crashing into my reality. I decided to go back to my apartment, thinking it’d blow over in a few days.

For three or four days, I stayed home. I ate, drank, and soaked in long baths, ignoring the rumblings of chaos outside. Then the explosions started.

Five kilometers from my building, a few 15-story apartments block was obliterated by a missile. The blast shook my walls, my senses, and my naivety. The war was no longer something distant. It was right there, clawing at my doorstep.

That night, I lay awake, hearing the unrelenting booms of artillery in the distance. Sleep wasn’t an option, but I wasn’t panicking either. Maybe I was in shock, or maybe I was too stubborn to let fear take over. Either way, I knew I couldn’t stay.

The Exodus to Uzhhorod

At dawn, I packed a small bag with a week’s worth of clothes. No sentimental items, no valuables—just the basics. My plan was simple: head west, wait it out, and return once things calmed down. It felt like a reasonable assumption at the time.

The journey west was anything but reasonable. The metro stations were packed with families clutching children, pets, and what little they could carry. The trains were free, but that didn’t make it easier. People crammed into every inch of space, standing shoulder to shoulder in suffocating heat.

By the time I reached the bus station, the chaos had amplified. What once cost $10 for a bus ticket now cost $100—or 4000 UAH. The price hike didn’t deter the masses. Buses were still overflowing, and tempers flared as people fought for seats.

When I finally arrived in Uzhhorod, a small border town near Slovakia, I was greeted by more of the same. Hundreds of people had descended upon the town, all with the same goal, escape.

Crossing the Border

The border itself was a surreal scene. Lines stretched endlessly, a mosaic of fear, hope, and exhaustion. Families huddled together, sharing blankets and food. Strangers helped one another in ways you wouldn’t expect, given the circumstances.

For once, I had no plan. Normally, I pride myself on being in control, but here, control was a luxury no one could afford. I joined the flow of people, moving with the tide toward an uncertain future.

The wildest part? The borders were open. No visa checks, no interrogations—just a free pass into the Schengen Zone. It felt unreal, like the rules of the world had momentarily paused to accommodate the madness.

A New Chapter in Europe

When I finally stepped onto European soil, a strange mix of relief and guilt washed over me. I was safe, but so many others weren’t. The war hadn’t ended; it had just begun.

I didn’t have a clear plan for what came next. All I knew was that I had crossed over, leaving behind a life I could never return to.

As I wandered through the streets of my new refuge, I couldn’t help but reflect on the twists and turns that had brought me here. From a job selling fake crypto dreams in Kyiv to the chaos of war and the desperate scramble to escape—I had seen more in a few weeks than most people see in a lifetime.