Аглям

Scoring.
Credit scoring. A system for assessing a person’s creditworthiness and risk of default, based on numerical statistical methods. (Wikipedia)
Aglam Sharafutdinov had a remarkable gift from childhood. His name, Aglam, meaning “all-knowing” in Tatar, was suggested by his grandmother Gulnara—and it turned out to be spot on. Aglam truly knew a lot. Though, it wasn’t immediately obvious.
One day, Aglam was playing in a sandbox with his favorite ZIL dump truck, the kind with pneumatic lift and one working door (the other had already broken off). Thanks to the ZIL, Aglam was the sandbox star. Marat came over—his best friend of three whole months, a friendship tested by time—and asked to borrow the truck.
Even as the toy was still passing from hand to hand, Aglam suddenly felt the loss. He knew he would never see his ZIL again. And he was right. That very day, Marat’s family left Kazan for the far reaches of Vladivostok. Marat had known about the move, and traded friendship for a toy truck.
In early ’90s Russia, many people traded friendship for trucks—but usually after the age of five. Aglam was so devastated, he came down with a fever.
Only in school did he begin to profit from his gift. His classmates were constantly borrowing and trading cafeteria change, Turbo gum inserts, bottle caps, and other valuable schoolyard currency. Aglam learned not just to lend, but to lend with interest—and, more importantly, to say no. He knew who would pay him back, and who wouldn’t.
The local Tom Sawyer quickly gained both popularity and capital.
His parents had no clue about his entrepreneurial streak. They simply smiled every time he brought home another perfect grade.
And really, who wouldn’t get straight A’s when all the top students owed you interest?
By ninth grade, word had spread across the district about the incredible boy who loaned money with interest.
Naturally, a few high schoolers from a neighboring school saw a chance to cash in—and tried some light racketeering.
But Aglam, ever cautious, hid his stash in secret places. His savings took no serious hit.
Still, after a couple of attempted muggings, he decided to act. He hired two third-year students from the Institute of Physical Culture and Sports—Ramil and Vanya.
When another robbery attempt ended with the would-be thieves nursing black eyes, they got the message: this guy wasn’t worth the trouble. They moved on to easier prey.
Aglam, with an air of superiority, paid his bodyguards and informed them their services were no longer needed.
They exchanged glances—and promptly asked him for a loan, promising to repay with interest.
Aglam’s sixth sense told him he wouldn’t be getting that money back. He mumbled something about not having the cash right now and started plotting his escape. They let him go—but there was a dark glint in the future football coaches’ eyes.
A couple of weeks later, Ramil came back and asked for a loan again. This time, he was even more polite. They promised to return it in a month with 10% interest.
Aglam was ready to say no. His analytical brain had already begun breaking down the future risks. But then the gift whispered: They’ll pay it back.
Aglam never argued with it. So he politely agreed and, the next day, handed Ramil the money. The sportsman radiated danger, but he confirmed the deal and left.
All of it felt… wrong. For the first time, Aglam’s gut feeling clashed with logic.
Still, he decided to take the risk for a few reasons.
First, though the sum was considerable, it wasn’t even a third of his savings—and he was curious to test the limits of his sixth sense.
Second, as with all things mystical, it’s not wise to rely on pure logic alone.
Aglam had an almost superstitious fear that if he betrayed his gift, it would leave him.
A month later, Ramil returned and said he’d bring the money to the empty lot behind the school—in two hours.
When Aglam reasonably asked why not just give it now, Ramil shrugged his broad shoulders and walked away.
The whole situation stank. If Aglam had been using his nose, he might have passed out from the stench.
Still, his sixth sense insisted: You’ll get the money back.
Technically, he didn’t have to go.
But when the hairs on your neck stand up, and your instincts scream danger, the smart move is to run.
Curiosity—and, truth be told, greed—won out.
Two hours later, Aglam approached the lot on shaky legs. Autumn twilight had descended on Kazan. A light drizzle was falling. The athletic silhouettes of four men—Vanya, Ramil, and two others—were clearly visible.
Compared to them, scrawny little Aglam looked like a chick among wolves.
“Salam, Aglam,” Ramil smirked. “So, you did come for your money.”
“I never doubted you, man of your word,” he added, trying to flatter him.
Aglam felt uneasy.
“All good, all good,” Ramil nodded, pulling out his wallet. “Here—five thousand rubles and five hundred more, just like we agreed.”
“Thanks,” said the young loan shark, voice trembling slightly. The money went into his pocket.
His sixth sense had come through again. That was comforting—but the atmosphere was still tense.
“Well, I’ll be going now,” Aglam said, backing away awkwardly.
The hefty sum warmed his pocket.
The jocks from the sports institute slowly began circling around him.
“Wait, brother, here’s the thing—we urgently need to borrow 5,500 rubles. We’re short on beer money. Lend us some?”
And that’s when Aglam understood everything. These devils had read him like an open book.
They knew that unless they sincerely intended to return the loan, there’d be no gain.
Of course, that didn’t stop them from taking the money afterward.
He felt both furious and terrified.
But emotions could wait—right now, he needed to save his own skin.
Looking around, the boy realized he was surrounded — no way out.
Not that running would’ve helped anyway.
These oversized goons would’ve caught him even if he had a two-kilometer head start.
“So, what’s the holdup, Aglam?”
Vanya’s deep voice rumbled.
“Should we stand here all day?”
“And what if I say no?” Aglam asked quickly, instinctively ducking his head between his shoulders.
Honestly, it was a stupid question. But Ramil, who clearly had full control of the situation, didn’t seem angry.
“You know,” Ramil said in a strangely cheerful tone, “at uni they gave us a lecture on economics.
They told us about something called ‘scoring.’ You know what that is?”
“No… never heard of it,” Aglam replied.
“It’s like, a thing where you rate the chances someone won’t pay back a loan.”
He grinned. “So now look at us… and score the risk of us not paying you back.”
Aglam had already done that math — and made up his mind.
What amazed him wasn’t that these guys didn’t grasp the idea.
It was that, by their own logic, he shouldn’t have lent them money in the first place.
But now the only question left was:
Should he insult them while handing over the money — or just keep it polite?
He quickly calculated that risk too.
“Alright, guys,” Aglam said with a forced smile. “I get it. You’re thirsty. Desperate times. Here you go.”
“Smart kid,” Vanya chuckled, patting Aglam on the cheek. “You’ll go far.”
The muscle-bound thugs relaxed and strolled off into the sunset.
“Just curious,” Aglam called after them, “when should I expect the repayment?”
“Eventually, bro. Eventually,” Ramil purred over his shoulder.
Aglam sat down on a log at the edge of the abandoned lot and let out a loud sigh.
All in all, he’d managed the risk well — even if he didn’t yet know that word.
He’d have lost that money no matter what.
But he didn’t get punched in the face, and more importantly — he’d tested his gift again.
It still worked.
It could’ve been worse. People had been killed for less, as the evening news liked to remind him.
Later, Aglam entered Kazan University and, naturally, got a degree in finance and credit.
Theory bored him, but practice? That was easy.
By the time he graduated — after years of lending money to rich kids — he’d bought himself a used Peugeot 406, like in the movie Taxi, and even a small apartment in Kazan’s Privolzhsky District.
But large cash deals were getting riskier.
He needed a legit job.
Banks were boring. Pawnshops — dangerous.
He tried working at a casino, but in 2009 all legal gambling in Russia was shut down.
He didn’t want to get involved in shady schemes — he had plenty of his own.
So he turned back to banking.
First, he worked for six months as an operations specialist at one of Kazan’s biggest banks.
Then he took a professional development course and applied for a position in the personal credit scoring department.
And that’s when things really took off.
Back then, scoring managers still evaluated borrowers manually.
Computers only helped — they didn’t decide.
In less than a year, Aglam’s department showed a 91.8% repayment rate — unheard of.
Aglam himself had 100% prediction accuracy.
His manager didn’t want to share his bonus at first.
So Aglam walked into his office with printed stats and calmly threatened to transfer… not to another bank, but another department.
That hit harder.
In the end, Aglam got a bigger bonus than his boss.
Two years later, scoring systems were getting automated across Russia — like digital kudzu.
But one department in Kazan stuck to the old ways… and kept breaking records.
How did Aglam do it?
Simple.
He imagined the loan was his own money.
He’d look at a borrower — or even just their file — close his eyes… and he knew.
They’d repay. Or not.
He denied loans to successful businessmen who later collapsed.
Approved loans for broke schoolteachers who ended up inheriting apartments or winning lotteries.
His accuracy stunned everyone.
But no one outside his small office had any idea how he worked.
Then, one day, his boss mysteriously submitted his resignation… and vanished.
Aglam took his place.
But he was feeling stuck. He’d outgrown Kazan.
When his request for a bonus increase was denied, he made a decision: time to move on.
One rainy Friday in April, Aglam was walking home tipsy after drinks with friends.
His phone buzzed. A message popped up in Messenger:
“Salam, Aglam! Remember me?”
It was from Ivan Chistoborodov — wide jaw, squinty eyes, big smile.
His profile read: Executive Director, ZhBI Bank.
Not bad.
He looked about five years older than Aglam.
And when Aglam saw his alma mater was the Institute of Physical Culture and Sports, it clicked.
Of course — one of the muscleheads from that long-ago showdown.
But instead of resentment, Aglam felt amused.
That incident had confirmed his gift. That was all that mattered.
“I remember.”
“You owe me 5,500 rubles,” Aglam added.
“Not me — Ramil. But I’m messaging you for work. Can we meet?”
“What, behind the school again?”
“No, restaurant Pushkin, Moscow. Tomorrow, 6 p.m. You send me your passport. I’ll book the flight and hotel.”
“Deal. Five stars minimum,” Aglam replied, smirking as he looked up at the sky.
A new chapter of his life had begun.
ZhBI Bank wasn’t in Russia’s top 100 by assets.
But it was healthy — and only moderately shady.
It laundered money, sure… but way less than its peers.
And its founders had strong ties to all the Kremlin towers.
Aglam was hired to lead a major leap in lending.
His interview with CEO Gennady Petrovich Sakharov and Ivan at the Pushkin restaurant was… unusual.
Turns out the bank had a unique recruitment strategy.
Every six months, the CEO and head analyst scanned financial reports across the industry, looking for outliers.
If one person was behind the numbers, they offered triple the market salary and hired them instantly.
That’s how Aglam learned where his old boss had disappeared to.
Ivan had randomly seen Aglam’s file in the CEO’s office and shouted:
“Hey, I know this guy! He’s a freaking finance genius!”
After some polite compliments, Aglam was given a test assignment:
25 folders with data on borrowers whose next payment was due in a week.
“Predict who will pay on time.”
Aglam glanced through them out of courtesy.
But he already knew:
18 would pay on time
5 would pay late
1 (a guy named Fedotov with a Spanish first name) would pay for a few years… then suddenly default
And 1 “reliable” client would never pay again
Sakharov looked at Aglam’s predictions and smirked.
“No way our analytics team missed this twice… So you’re the reason for that Kazan department’s success.”
He leaned in.
“But you’re clearly not using statistical models, are you?”
“Let’s talk in a week,” Aglam replied. “For now, go ahead and write the offer.”
Three days later, the offer came.
And it exceeded all of Aglam Sharafutdinov’s wildest expectations.
In addition to a hefty salary, he was offered the position of Head of the Scoring Department and quarterly bonuses as a percentage of recovered loans. He was also asked to take on the analysis of corporate borrowers’ liabilities—which he gladly accepted. Within just a few years, Aglam had propelled the bank into the top 50, and later into the top 30 by capitalization. Several competitors tried to lure him away. But Sakharov continuously improved his terms, realizing that with an employee like Aglam, the prospects were limitless.
Eventually, the security service started a rumor: the bank owed its incredible success not to Aglam—who was merely a front—but to a cutting-edge loan approval algorithm. From that point, competitors hunted the algorithm in vain.
Aglam’s life slowly turned into a dream. He was doing what he loved, without overexerting himself. His modest apartment in Kazan became a penthouse on Ostozhenka, and his used Peugeot was replaced with an even older—but significantly more expensive—1969 Chevrolet Camaro.
One unremarkable July morning, Sharafutdinov pulled up to the bank, greeted the security guards, gave a polite nod to the secretary, and entered his office. On the table was a cup of coffee—prepared the moment the yellow-and-black face of his car entered the underground parking lot.
Exhaling loudly, Aglam collapsed into his chair and turned on the vibro-massage. He’d been gaining weight rapidly lately, and it bothered him.
His cushy job didn’t take much time. He never started a family. So nearly every day after 4 p.m., he would leave the office and spend the rest of his time indulging in drinks with fellow bankers. He quickly skimmed several short-term credit applications—approved almost all of them. The country was booming, people had money and bright prospects.
Aglam ordered another coffee and stared uneasily at the edge of his massive desk covered in green baize. His father had loved such desks—it felt like a tribute to his memory. On the desk were folders filled with long-term loan applications—ten years and beyond. Management had long asked him to deal with them, but he kept putting it off.
His gift required effort. The larger the loan amount and the more frequently he used his ability, the more energy it drained. He had discovered this only at ZhB and the bank. At his previous job, he approved small loans and was younger and more energetic.
Pacing around the office, doing breathing exercises, and sipping his second coffee, Aglam finally made up his mind. With a confident motion, he pulled out the first folder.
It was a well-known Moscow developer. He closed his eyes and was disappointed to see they would make timely payments… until September 15th, eight years from now, when they’d go bankrupt. Let the planning department crunch the numbers. It still might be profitable to lend them the money. His job was to say what would happen and when. The rest wasn’t his concern.
The second folder: a chain of barbershops. Default in a year and a half. Dead end.
The third: an investment firm. Early repayment in three years. Excellent. Approved.
The fourth: a concrete factory. Again, defaults begin in eight years—same as the developer.
Aglam smirked. He had long realized that his gift let him predict the onset of economic and sectoral crises. Construction was in trouble. A housing bubble, maybe?
Aglam marked his calendar: sell all real estate in seven years—before prices crash.
The fifth and final folder for the day: a Russian fintech company, a successful startup from last year that refused buyout offers and chose to grow through loans. Interesting. He closed his eyes. Steady payments for eight years. Then, in mid-September—a complete halt.
Aglam frowned. He was exhausted. He needed a break—but curiosity got the better of him.
The sixth folder. Another developer. Nope, no good.
A 15-year loan request from a large diamond mining company. His worst suspicions were confirmed. Eight years of timely payments… then nothing.
What the hell is going on?
Time for a break. He needed to test an obvious hypothesis.
Sharafutdinov picked up the phone and called his guardian angel, Ivan Chistoborodov.
He loosened his tie and exhaled slowly.
“Listen, I need a big favor. Send an official bank request—for a $100,000 loan from me, ten-year term.”
“Aglamych, you out of cash or something? I’ll lend you the money myself!”
“No, no. I want the bank to ask me for a loan.”
“You high or what?” Ivan suspected Aglam dabbled in cocaine. “Want me to call an ambulance?”
“Cut it out. Just… write another request, from yourself personally. I need to check something. It’s important.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re up to, but hey—for a dear friend making us this much money, anything.”
Aglam didn’t return his joking tone and hung up. Better keep it to himself—for now. Otherwise, they might think he was losing it.
Half an hour later, the papers were delivered. His worst fears came true: both loans would default in eight years, in September.
So either the bank would collapse—a long shot, given its growth—or there’d be a massive collapse of the Russian economy in eight years. Or worse.
Then, a horrifying idea struck Aglam: what if it wasn’t just Russia?
He lunged toward the long-term folders. Telecom companies, restaurant chains… a French shipbuilder… Australian solar panel manufacturer…
Aglam closed his eyes, summoning the last of his strength.
Goddamn it!
Everything had been double- and triple-checked. He’d run countless hypotheses. He contacted banks worldwide, asking to test the new scoring algorithm on their long-term borrowers.
Same result. Always the same.
In September 2032, something terrible would happen. No one would repay debts.
September 14, 2032—the world would collapse.
Not just the economy—the world itself.
Aglam may have gotten lazy, but he still understood statistics. And statistics said that even in a total economic meltdown, not everyone stops repaying debts. Some people are cautious, some companies survive longer.
But the deeper he dug, the clearer it became.
In eight years, something utterly impossible within known economics would happen.
Not a crisis, not a pandemic, not even a global SWIFT shutdown could explain it.
Aglam concluded: it would be either full-scale nuclear war—or something that caused rapid, massive death of humanity.
He exhaled. First: he still had eight years. Live them well. Second: maybe he could survive.
Calming himself, Aglam poured a glass of cognac and invited Sakharov and Chistoborodov. The conversation ahead wouldn’t be easy.
“What would you do if you knew the world would end in about eight years—and you had unlimited money?”
The board of ZhB Bank decided it wasn’t time to give up. They chose to fight.
They acquired vast land tracts in remote regions of Russia. Construction boomed. Many joined in, knowing full well how accurate the Scoring Department’s algorithm was. It had predicted global collapse.
Year by year, the bunkers grew deeper and more luxurious. Drills became routine.
Of course, Western intelligence noticed. Soon, the entire Nuclear Club knew the Russian elite was quietly preparing an escape.
Official inquiries were initially met with silence—raising more suspicions. Eventually, the elites of all nations learned about September 14, 2032.
No one really knew what would happen that day. Everyone interpreted it their own way.
By 2031, rumors flew.
Russia would launch a nuclear strike.
Aliens were coming.
Humanity had inhaled spores of a brain-eating fungus—and they’d all activate on the same day.
By January 2032, global paranoia peaked—then began to fade.
People lived as usual, aside from investments in defense and bunkers. No major wars loomed.
World leaders split: some were sure Doomsday was inevitable; others believed it was all a hoax. The skeptics grew in number. Panic decreased daily. By August, hysteria hit a low.
Late August: the UN General Assembly and Security Council meetings were the most peaceful in history. Even long-smoldering religious and ethnic conflicts seemed to pause.
On Monday, September 13, 2032, global markets closed with a 3% average gain.
On the 14th, most elites quietly moved into their bunkers—just in case.
Almost no one remembered how it all began, or why that date mattered.
But Aglam Sharafutdinov remembered.
For the past year, he barely slept. Drank constantly. All his money was in bunkers.
And the world didn’t seem ready to die.
A meteor strike was still possible—but no asteroids were detected nearby.
It seemed the end wouldn’t come. That meant his greatest scoring calculation had been wrong.
On the eve of Doomsday, completely exhausted, he flew to the bunker near the Ural Mountains. Ivan and Gennady Petrovich met him politely, if somewhat puzzled.
Lying down on a luxurious bed, Aglam finally relaxed.
If he was right, and the world ended—he’d be a savior. Revered, or at least left unharmed.
If he was wrong, he lost all his money—but the world would go on.
His partners, like true bankers, had never fully exited their assets. They were thriving in the rising market.
That was a good outcome too.
Realizing this, Aglam smiled and—for the first time in ages—slept soundly.
He was found the next morning, still smiling.
The cause: a blood clot, released in his sleep. His gift had not deceived him.
In calculating credit risk, he had always projected outcomes onto himself.
And since fate had marked his death for September 14, 2032—all debts beyond that date had been cancelled by the highest court of all.
The funeral of the Head of the Scoring Department was paid for by ZhB Bank, which remained the second-largest bank in the country.
In 2033, the fintech company Aglam had approved eight years earlier developed a new scoring algorithm for the bank. Based on quantum computing, it delivered an average annual accuracy of 92.4%—far above market standards.
The quantum computer used for the algorithm took over the underground parking space where the yellow-black Camaro once stood.
By order of the bank’s new chairman, Ivan Chistoborodov, it was named “Aglam.”
In Tatar, it means “all-knowing.”