#15: She Posted Every Day. Until She Didn’t. The Anastasia Grishman Story

Full Episode Transcript

For days, her phone kept lighting up. Notifications after notifications. Messages from friends, from fans, from people who cared. Yet the replies were... unusual. Short. Vague. Sometimes cold, distant — like a voice from behind a locked door, careful not to say too much.

Anastasia Grishman. A young woman who had built a life online, sharing herself with hundreds of thousands. Her world was vibrant and noisy, alive with the steady pulse of content—videos, photos, streams—moments captured and shared with an audience that never stopped watching. She was present. She was seen. Until one day, she wasn’t.

Her accounts went silent.

The usual flood of posts dried up. TikTok feeds stopped refreshing. OnlyFans updates ceased. A void settled where her energy once radiated. For a creator so prolific, so connected, this silence was impossible to ignore.

Her closest friends noticed first. They reached out. Calls went unanswered. Texts were met with brief messages, always similar in tone. “I’m not feeling well,” one said. “I need some space,” read another. But no one had actually seen her. No one knew where she was.

Concern turned to unease. Friends tried to visit. Doors went unanswered. The apartment was locked tight. And still, the messages came—never voice notes, never videos, never the warmth of her real presence. Just words. Carefully typed, detached, rehearsed.

It wasn’t like Anastasia.

As the days stretched on, the silence deepened, and the strange messages persisted. Something was wrong.

Then, after nearly a week of growing dread, the illusion shattered.

A troubling discovery came to light.

Not what anyone expected. Not what anyone could have prepared for.

What was found would unravel everything—a carefully maintained facade, a chilling secret hidden behind the screen.

This is the story of Anastasia Grishman.

Anastasia Grishman was born on February 7th, 1996, in Leningrad—renamed St. Petersburg just five years earlier, after the fall of the Soviet Union. Her early life was shaped by the same instability that had marked post-Soviet Russia for much of the 1990s. It was a time of economic collapse, political upheaval, and growing social inequality. For ordinary families, survival often came ahead of structure or care.

Anastasia’s father was present in name only. An alcoholic, he was largely absent throughout her upbringing. He drifted in and out of her life, leaving little behind beyond unmet expectations. Her mother, Elena, became the only stable adult figure—but even her presence was erratic. The family was extremely poor. In interviews years later, Anastasia described how she and her mother moved frequently, staying in hostels or shared rooms. For over a decade, the pair lacked a stable place to live. At one point, they slept in the same bed in a crowded communal hostel where strangers came and went at all hours of the night. There was no privacy. No consistency. No safety.

Despite Elena’s efforts to work and support them, she was often away for long stretches, taking jobs in other cities. That left Anastasia alone, frequently unsupervised, and exposed to the harshness of her environment. She was still a child. She would later describe that period as one of deep loneliness. She felt invisible—left to raise herself.

The absence of adult care left scars. She grew up guarded and emotionally self-contained. She later said that from the age of five, she could already sense that she wasn’t anyone’s priority. She became what she called “self-taught in life”—figuring things out alone, because no one else was available to show her. The result was a child who appeared tough on the surface, but who internalized the belief that she had been forgotten or rejected by the people who were supposed to protect her.

At age 12, Elena sent her to live with her paternal grandmother in the town of Kolpino, about 30 kilometers southeast of central St. Petersburg. To the outside world, it was a positive move. The apartment was stable. She had her own room. There was food, quiet, and structure. But to Anastasia, the change only deepened her sense of abandonment. Her grandmother—her babushka—became the first consistent adult figure in her life. But the move came with a message: that her mother had chosen to prioritize work, relationships, or simply her own comfort over being with her daughter.

This perceived rejection shaped Anastasia’s worldview. She began to isolate herself emotionally. She struggled with depressive thoughts and developed an eating disorder. Though she rarely presented herself as vulnerable in public, friends who knew her well described someone who could swing between extremes—warm and energetic in one moment, withdrawn and self-critical the next. She admitted that she struggled to trust others. She would often preemptively push people away.

Still, in the privacy of her grandmother’s home, she began to find direction. She discovered an early love for art. Her grandmother encouraged her creativity—never dismissing her ideas, no matter how unusual they seemed. Anastasia began drawing obsessively. She used her bedroom walls as sketchpads. She moved on to painting, and eventually to tattoo design. Her notebooks were filled with anime characters, fantasy motifs, and symbols of escape. She spent hours watching animated films and sketching scenes frame by frame. She dreamed of becoming a famous artist, of being known and remembered.

At 15, she had her first tattoo inked—illegally, given her age. Not long after, she began tattooing herself. She would later become known for the large portions of her body she had covered on her own, using a handheld tattoo machine and a mirror. It was both an act of defiance and control. In a world where she had often felt powerless, marking her own body on her own terms gave her a sense of agency.

Her physical appearance became a form of identity. She dyed her hair, adopted piercings, wore heavy makeup, and leaned into gothic, punk, and anime subcultures. It wasn’t just about aesthetics—it was about asserting who she was, and who she wasn’t. She spoke openly about rejecting traditional Russian beauty standards. She resented what she saw as the country’s obsession with conformity. She wanted to be different. And she was.

Online, she adopted the handle “grshmn”—a shortened, stylized version of her surname—and began sharing photos and videos of her life. She posted makeup tutorials, cosplay shoots, and clips of her cat. But her focus gradually shifted toward tattooing. Her specialty was anime-style work—bold, vivid pieces with clean lines and detailed color palettes. She worked from home, often on friends or clients who found her through social media. By 18, she was running a full-time tattoo business out of her apartment. She’d found a niche. Her work was in demand.

But she didn’t stop there. Anastasia was unusually tech-savvy. She had taken online courses in computer programming and web design. She launched side projects offering design tutorials and coding lessons. She ran multiple Telegram channels. She created content on subscription platforms, often blending cosplay, modeling, and erotic photography into a highly stylized, curated persona.

She was an early adopter of TikTok, joining the platform in 2019. Her account grew quickly. Within a year, she had over a quarter of a million followers. Her blend of visual artistry, offbeat humor, and candid storytelling made her stand out in a sea of content creators. Her aesthetic was distinctive. Her voice was direct. To many of her fans, she represented something rare: authenticity.

But her most successful—and most controversial—content was her adult material. She shot and edited everything herself. Her work was widely viewed and brought in significant income. Friends said she treated it as a business. She set her own rules. She maintained control of her content. The line between persona and person was carefully managed. What she chose to show the public was deliberate.

Privately, Anastasia remained guarded. Friends said she could be warm, generous, and fiercely loyal—but few people knew her whole story. Her relationships were intense, sometimes short-lived, and occasionally volatile. She described herself as someone who struggled with closeness. She feared being replaced. She feared being forgotten.

Despite this, she built a strong inner circle of friends and colleagues who respected her talent and independence. She cared deeply about animals and regularly donated to shelters. She maintained close contact with her grandmother. She was known for sending long voice notes, often filled with thoughtful observations and dry humor.

Anastasia Grishman had, by her mid-20s, created a life that defied the expectations placed on her. She was financially independent. She was widely recognized in her creative circles. And she had done it without traditional support—without family money, without industry connections, and without compromising who she was.

Dmitry Khamlovsky was born on February 15th, 1998, in the southwestern Siberian city of Omsk. Situated along the Irtysh River and known for its stark winters and Soviet-era infrastructure, Omsk was a remote industrial center with limited opportunities for upward mobility. Like many cities in post-Soviet Russia, it was shaped by decades of underinvestment, tight social control, and economic disparity. It was within this context that Dmitry entered the world.

Very little is publicly known about Dmitry’s early childhood. What is known is that his mother died when he was still very young. The circumstances of her death have never been made public, but her absence marked the defining event of his early years. His father remarried not long afterward, and Dmitry was raised by his father and stepmother.

Friends and former acquaintances would later describe Dmitry as a withdrawn and quiet child—emotionally closed off, shy, and often uncomfortable in social settings. His early experience of loss and displacement appeared to shape the way he related to others. Those who knew him described a boy who kept to himself, one who seemed perpetually on edge, wary of emotional exposure.

By adolescence, Dmitry had found a kind of outlet online. He became extremely active on VKontakte—the Russian equivalent of Facebook. There, he began curating a persona that many would later describe as troubling. His posts often focused on themes of death and decay. He was known to upload photos of himself in graveyards, sometimes posing beside headstones belonging to girls who had died young. One caption read that he enjoyed walking among “the graves of girls much younger than him.”

To outsiders, the posts were difficult to interpret. Some viewed them as attempts at morbid artistic expression; others saw them as signals of something darker. A friend from that period recalled him as being “relentless with these death posts.” His social media presence also revealed a fixation on junk food, poetry, and highly controlling attitudes toward romantic relationships.

On more than one occasion, Dmitry posted public lists outlining his requirements for a potential partner. These included strict—and disturbing—criteria based on age and body weight. In one post, he wrote that he would never sleep with someone “over a certain weight or over 16.” Elsewhere, he referred to his then-girlfriend, Margarita, in degrading terms—saying she was “nothing more than skin to him.” Friends described these remarks as misogynistic, disrespectful, and troubling.

Despite these attitudes, Dmitry remained in a long-term relationship with Margarita for five years. The two had known each other since childhood and, for a time, were described as a stable couple. Their relationship, however, was not conventional. By the time they were adults, Dmitry and Margarita were producing and appearing in their own pornographic videos. According to Margarita, the idea had been Dmitry’s. She later claimed she agreed to take part out of fear—stating that she believed he would leave her if she refused.

Her accounts of their relationship grew more troubling as time went on. In interviews, she accused Dmitry of emotional abuse and manipulation. She said he had once raised a hand to her, and described an incident where he strangled her during an argument on the day they separated. She also claimed that he gaslighted her throughout the final stages of their relationship—particularly after he became close with another woman: Anastasia Grishman.

Professionally, Dmitry drifted between projects. He earned money through a mixture of web design, IT programming, and what he called “home movies”—a euphemism for amateur pornography. Under Russian law, producing pornographic material for commercial purposes is illegal, though enforcement tends to be uneven. The penalties range from two to six years in prison. Dmitry appeared to operate in the grey areas of the law, avoiding formal studios and distributing content through subscription platforms. He had no formal business licenses, and his work was shared under pseudonyms.

At 18, Dmitry relocated to St. Petersburg with Margarita. There, he picked up occasional IT work while continuing to build his online presence. His social circles were mostly limited to others involved in fringe creative scenes, including adult content producers and amateur coders. His behavior remained erratic and, at times, inappropriate. Acquaintances described him as socially awkward and incapable of understanding boundaries. Some who had interacted with him online said they had blocked him after receiving unsolicited or unsettling messages.

By the age of 19, Dmitry already had a criminal record. His first offense came at 16, when he was convicted of theft. His second offense was for evading mandatory military service—a serious crime in Russia. All men in the country are required to serve in the military at age 18. Avoiding this obligation carries criminal penalties and results in permanent restrictions on travel. Dmitry was prosecuted for the evasion, and as a result, was barred from leaving the country.

His criminal record, combined with his online history and the accounts provided by his former partner, painted a picture of someone who had struggled with impulse control and displayed a persistent disregard for social norms. His digital footprint was filled with red flags—disturbing content, misogynistic rhetoric, and a fixation on control and power.

When Dmitry first crossed paths with Anastasia Grishman, he was still working odd jobs in tech, producing adult videos, and maintaining a modest online presence under various aliases. To those who knew her, the connection between Anastasia and Dmitry was difficult to reconcile. She was creative, independent, and professionally respected. He, by contrast, had a checkered past, questionable ethics, and a growing history of interpersonal harm.

But their paths had intersected. And the outcome would leave a permanent mark.

In late 2021, around the beginning of September, Dmitry Khamlovsky—then still using the surname Chernyshov—was referred to a tattoo artist named Anastasia Grishman. The recommendation came from Margarita, Dmitry’s long-term girlfriend at the time. Margarita had been a client of Anastasia’s and referred to her as her favorite tattooist.

Dmitry booked a large-scale tattoo that required multiple sessions. This meant he would be returning to Anastasia’s studio on several occasions in the weeks and months that followed.

From the beginning, the two formed an easy rapport. They found they shared many interests. Both had a love of cars—Anastasia was especially fond of supercars and had been involved in the street racing scene. They were also drawn to art, and both had a highly visible relationship with body modification. Dmitry had tattoos on his face. Anastasia was covered in ink.

More importantly, their connection seemed to run deeper than shared tastes. Both had experienced early emotional abandonment in different forms. Dmitry’s mother had died when he was very young. Anastasia’s mother had grown distant after Anastasia reached adolescence—more focused on work and new relationships than her daughter. Dmitry and Anastasia bonded over what they saw as a shared emotional deficit—an aching lack of stable maternal presence. They also shared a sense of hunger to make something of themselves. Both had come from modest backgrounds. Both wanted success, attention, influence.

Their friendship moved quickly. By late 2021, it had evolved into something more. Dmitry and Anastasia began an affair while he was still living with Margarita. Margarita noticed the change immediately. She confronted Dmitry several times, accusing him of cheating. The arguments became heated. At one point, Margarita threatened to take her own life.

In an apparent attempt to de-escalate the situation, Dmitry and Anastasia visited the flat where Margarita still lived with Dmitry. The meeting quickly deteriorated. Margarita ran out into the snow barefoot, still in her pajamas. It was Anastasia who called the ambulance.

Not long after this, Margarita learned that Dmitry had bought Anastasia a car. It was a significant purchase—one he had never offered to make for her. She felt betrayed and publicly humiliated. According to later reports, she took the car and deliberately crashed it.

Dmitry soon left Margarita for good. He and Anastasia became a couple.

By early 2022, their relationship had deepened to include professional collaboration. Dmitry took on multiple roles in Anastasia’s growing business. He handled her tattoo bookings, managed her online presence, edited content, and helped sell digital courses in programming and design. His support appeared to be effective. Within a matter of months, Anastasia’s annual earnings nearly doubled—from approximately four million rubles to seven million.

The pair married in February 2022, just five months after they first met.

Shortly after the wedding, there was a sudden shift in direction. Dmitry, who had previously filmed pornographic material with Margarita, convinced Anastasia to join him in a similar venture. The two began producing adult content together. They started on OnlyFans and later moved some of their material to Pornhub.

Within weeks, Anastasia’s new career path had become a matter of public scrutiny.

In April 2022, she was invited to appear on a talk show called Beyond the Edge. The program was known for its combative tone and controversial subject matter. During the broadcast, Anastasia’s mother expressed strong disapproval of her daughter’s involvement in pornography, placing much of the blame on Dmitry.

Anastasia, in turn, seemed prepared for the backlash. She portrayed herself as defiant, even provocative. She told the host panel that doing porn had always been a dream of hers, and that Dmitry had simply helped her realize it.

Margarita, Dmitry’s now ex-girlfriend, was also invited onto the show. Her presence added further tension. She accused Dmitry of manipulation and abuse, alleging that he had pressured her into making adult content and had physically assaulted her. She also suggested that Dmitry had chosen Anastasia because she already had an online following and social media presence—she was an influencer and a well-known tattooist.

Anastasia responded to these accusations by labeling Margarita jealous. When pressed by the panel about the violence claims, Dmitry dismissed them outright. He was cruel and derisive. He compared the two women publicly, praising Anastasia’s looks while calling Margarita “hysterical.”

Despite the show’s confrontational nature—and despite the clear warnings voiced by both Margarita and Anastasia’s mother—Anastasia stood by Dmitry. She referred to him as a “hero” and downplayed the accusations. But when her mother broke down on camera, Anastasia seemed momentarily shaken. She admitted that her relationship with her mother mattered more to her than her work in porn. Dmitry, perhaps sensing public opinion shifting, agreed to let her leave the industry if that was what she wanted.

After the appearance on Beyond the Edge, there was a marked change behind the scenes.

In the following months, Anastasia’s enthusiasm for the relationship began to wane. Dmitry had abandoned all other work and was now financially dependent on her. Their arguments increased in frequency and intensity. Anastasia began to resent him. According to accounts from people close to her, she described him as a burden. She started to make plans in secret. Her goal was to leave Dmitry, leave the business, and leave the country. She intended to move to South Korea and open a tattoo studio there. She began selling her possessions and putting money aside.

She confided in another TikToker named Kirill, telling him about her frustrations and fears. By late July 2022, Dmitry had moved out of her apartment. The relationship had fully collapsed. Anastasia was in the process of organizing a divorce. According to friends, she was optimistic about the future and was preparing to leave Russia for good.

Anastasia’s audience was drawn to her distinct aesthetic—heavy tattoos, many self-done, and an anime-inspired goth style that made her instantly recognizable. In videos, she often appeared in elaborate cosplay or casual but stylized outfits, speaking with calm confidence about her tattoos, her work, and sometimes, her challenges. Her posts were frequent, often daily. For many, she wasn’t just a content creator—she was a familiar presence in their lives.

Her reach extended far beyond Russia’s border but to her followers and friends, the unfiltered moments she shared online—snippets from her apartment, close-ups of her tattoo sessions, her quiet humor—were the content they responded to most.

So when Anastasia’s usual stream of updates abruptly stopped in mid-August, it didn’t go unnoticed.

At first, the silence seemed temporary. Some fans speculated that she was taking a break. Others thought she might be traveling. On her public accounts, no new videos or posts appeared. Still, messages sent to her were answered.

The replies came through Instagram and messaging apps. Friends reaching out received short responses. Anastasia, they were told, was feeling unwell. She needed time, was feeling low, or simply wanted to be alone. A few were told she was ill. Others were reassured that there was nothing to worry about.

The tone was plausible, but slightly off. She didn’t send voice notes. She didn’t call. It was all text—brief, somewhat flat. Some friends noticed the change but gave her space, taking the words at face value.

One friend, Kirill, had only recently become close to Anastasia. He received a message that their friendship was over—that she didn’t want to see him anymore. The wording was abrupt, inconsistent with previous conversations. He questioned it privately but didn’t push. Others were told she was sick and asked not to visit. It was enough to hold off concern—for a few days.

But the absence of new content was harder to explain away. Anastasia had always maintained a regular online rhythm. Whether through short-form videos, stories, or previews of her work, she had rarely gone more than a day or two without posting. Now, a full week had passed. Her profiles remained visible, her older posts still receiving likes and comments. But she was silent.

DMs were answered. Notifications were seen. But there were no signs of new photos, no glimpses of her face, no recent clips in her voice. Some messages from her sounded neutral; others were evasive. When friends suggested meeting in person or calling directly, they were deflected.

Concerns began to build. A few of her friends formed a private chat to compare what they had heard. The stories didn’t quite match. One had been told she was at home with the flu. Another that she was traveling with no reception. Another that she’d gone offline to deal with depression.

Even among her most loyal friends, unease set in. Her mother hadn’t heard her voice in days. Attempts to reach her by phone led nowhere. The messaging continued, but something felt wrong. Anastasia had never disappeared like this before. She had once taken a break from posting, but she had warned people in advance. This was different. This was silent.

Then came another unsettling detail. A listing appeared online under her name—an advertisement for personal items for sale. Friends who saw it wondered who had posted it, and why. A lease extension had reportedly been filed on her apartment, though she had never mentioned any change of plans.

By the end of the week, a handful of those closest to her decided they couldn’t wait any longer. With no direct confirmation of her wellbeing, and with the growing fear that the person responding to messages might not be Anastasia at all, they went to her apartment. What they found there would bring the digital charade to an end—and force investigators to confront a far more troubling question.

—

Accounts differ slightly. Some say it was a single friend who first raised the alarm. Others describe a group who went together to check on her. But what’s clear is this: on or just before August 10th, someone got close enough to her apartment to notice something wrong.

A foul odor was coming from behind the door.

It wasn’t just a faint, unpleasant scent. It was the kind of smell that couldn’t be explained by garbage or mildew. It was sharp. Heavy. Chemical sweeteners hung in the air—perfume, sprayed in excess. Later, investigators would find that the apartment’s pipes and vents had been sealed with duct tape. An apparent effort to block airflow. An attempt to stop the smell from spreading.

It hadn’t worked.

What happened next unfolded quickly. With no response from inside and growing fears for her safety, police were called to the scene. They forced entry.

Inside the flat, they found the source of the odor.

In the bathroom, submerged in the tub, was the body of Anastasia Grishman. She had been there for days. Her death was confirmed at the scene.

She had been stabbed repeatedly—at least twenty-two times, according to the medical report. The injuries were concentrated on her neck, with six deep wounds believed to be the fatal ones. Her body had remained in the water for approximately a week.

At the time of her discovery, those who had received messages from her were still trying to convince themselves she was just offline. That she was resting. That maybe she was dealing with something personal, and didn’t want to be disturbed.

But those messages hadn’t come from Anastasia. They had come from someone else.

And now, investigators had a body. They had a crime scene. And they had reason to believe that the person who had been impersonating her—keeping friends at a distance, buying time—was much closer than anyone had suspected.

As news of Anastasia Grishman's death broke across St. Petersburg, attention quickly turned to the man who had been the last known person to see her alive: Dmitry.

In the days following Anastasia’s disappearance, Dmitry had maintained a quiet, calculated performance. He’d posed as her online, replying to messages from friends, followers, and clients. He gave them vague updates. Told them she was sick. Depressed. That she needed space. For a time, the impersonation was convincing enough to delay suspicion. But only for a time.

Then came the misstep.

Roughly three days after Anastasia stopped communicating with the outside world, Dmitry met with a group of acquaintances — people who knew both him and Anastasia. Among them was a young woman named Laya, a mutual friend of the pair.

Initially, Dmitry seemed nervous. Preoccupied. But then his demeanor shifted. In what seemed like a spontaneous outburst, he began speaking. Sharing what he described as “deep personal truths.” The group listened in silence as Dmitry claimed that he and Anastasia had made a suicide pact — one that he said had existed for years. According to Dmitry, Anastasia had struggled with depression for most of her life. She’d asked him to kill her, he said. Begged him. Repeatedly. And now, he had finally followed through.

Laya, confused and alarmed, pressed him further.

That’s when Dmitry said it outright.

"Yeah, I stabbed her to death," he told her. "She is in the bathtub as we speak."

He warned Laya not to tell anyone. Not to call the police. Said he was going to turn himself in. Or kill himself. He wasn’t sure which.

But days passed. And Dmitry didn’t go to the police. He didn’t vanish. Instead, he remained in the apartment. Continued impersonating Anastasia online. Cashed in commissions. Even began selling off some of her personal belongings.

And then came something even stranger: Dmitry contacted the building’s landlord to request an extension on Anastasia’s lease.

To Laya, the contradiction was clear. Dmitry had claimed he would confess — that he would end his own life. But he hadn’t done either. He was acting as if he were settling in.

That’s when Laya made her decision.

On the evening of August 9th, she contacted police. She reported Dmitry’s confession and begged them to check Anastasia’s apartment immediately — before Dmitry could interfere or leave the scene.

The next day, on August 10th, officers forced entry into the apartment.

What they found confirmed Laya’s account.

She had been there for at least a week. The room had been sealed with duct tape. Vents were covered. Pipes blocked. Bottles of perfume had been emptied in an attempt to conceal the odor of decomposition. But it wasn’t enough.

An official manhunt was launched. Dmitry Khamlovsky was now the primary suspect in a murder investigation.

But he didn’t get far.

Within 24 hours of the body’s discovery, police located Dmitry hiding out at a motel on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. It was less than 30 minutes from the crime scene. He was taken into custody without resistance.

He was charged with murder later that same day.

At first, Dmitry gave a statement to police in which he described Anastasia as a troubled young woman. He claimed she had long suffered from mental illness, and that she had begged him, repeatedly, to end her life. He said the killing had been an act of assisted suicide. This defense was short-lived. The evidence told a different story so the tone shifted. Dmitry dropped the language of consent. And finally, he confessed outright to the killing.

In court, the suicide-pact theory was dismissed. Judges concluded that the murder was not the result of any agreement between Dmitry and Anastasia. Instead, the evidence pointed to something else entirely — a pattern of conflict, jealousy, and possessiveness that had spiraled into violence.

Anastasia had never asked to die.

She had asked to be left alone.

And when Dmitry refused, it cost her everything.

The legal process moved forward quickly. Within weeks of his arrest, Dmitry was made to participate in what’s known in Russia as a crime scene reenactment—a procedure where suspects are returned to the location of the killing and asked to physically demonstrate how the crime unfolded.

Footage from the reenactment was later leaked to the press. Dmitry is shown wearing handcuffs and prison-issue clothing. He is seen handling a life-size mannequin intended to represent Anastasia’s body. He lifts the dummy in his arms, drags it across the bathroom floor, and simulates repeated stabbing motions. One officer directs him where to stand. Another records the entire process. Russian media described the video as disturbing. The full clip was not publicly released.

His trial began in January 2023, in the Frunzensky District Court of St. Petersburg. On January 22nd, Dmitry entered a formal plea of guilty to the charge of murder under Part 1 of Article 105 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation.

In his courtroom statement, Dmitry admitted to stabbing Anastasia. He told the judge that she died in his arms, and that he had carried her into the bathroom afterward. He confirmed that, in the hours and days following the murder, he had used her mobile phone to reply to messages from her clients and friends, maintaining the illusion that she was still alive. During this time, he applied for a lease extension on her flat, sold her belongings, and accepted money under her name.

The court reviewed forensic evidence and pathology reports. Anastasia had sustained at least twenty-two separate stab wounds to her body—focused primarily on her neck, head, chest, and upper limbs. Six wounds to the neck were identified as the fatal injuries. She is believed to have died within minutes of the attack.

Investigators testified that the murder had likely taken place between August 1st and August 3rd, 2022—meaning her body had remained in the flat for roughly a week before it was discovered.

The prosecution argued that Dmitry's motive was rooted in jealousy. They pointed to his declining emotional stability in the weeks leading up to the murder, and to recent tensions between the pair. It was alleged that Dmitry had grown increasingly possessive and controlling, particularly after learning of Anastasia’s romantic involvement with another man named Kirill. She had also told close friends that she was planning to move abroad—without Dmitry.

There was speculation that Anastasia may have cut him off financially, or that he had lost access to her accounts, equipment, or online platforms. The court heard that the pair’s relationship had fractured in the weeks prior, and that Dmitry may have viewed the murder as both a punishment and a final act of control.

The judge rejected Dmitry’s initial claim of assisted suicide and found him guilty.

He was sentenced to eight years of imprisonment in a high-security correctional colony. The facility assigned to him was IK-3, located in the Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug in Siberia. It is colloquially known as “Polar Wolf.”

Conditions at Polar Wolf have been described by human rights observers as extreme. Inmates there are subjected to sub-zero temperatures, with winter lows of minus twenty degrees Celsius. Former prisoners have reported being forced to stand outdoors for hours on end while drenched with cold water. There are documented allegations of beatings, torture, tear gas, and psychological abuse. Some inmates are believed to have died by suicide. The prison is isolated, with limited oversight.

The sentence drew sharp criticism.

Commentators, journalists, and the public expressed disbelief. The brutality of the attack—the number of wounds, the impersonation, the concealment—seemed to demand a harsher penalty. In other countries, similar crimes had drawn sentences of 25 years or more. In Russia, the typical sentence for murder ranged from eight to fifteen years. Some noted a pattern: those who opposed the government, or belonged to marginalized groups, often faced longer prison terms than convicted killers. One outlet called Dmitry’s sentence “a joke.” Another asked whether women’s lives were valued at all.

After his sentencing, Dmitry allegedly made repeated requests to authorities asking that his name be withheld from the media. These requests were denied.

In the aftermath of the trial, Anastasia Grishman’s funeral was held in private. However, her mother allowed select media outlets to photograph and film portions of the service in exchange for payment. This decision drew criticism online, particularly after it was revealed that her grandmother had opposed the arrangement and had kept her distance throughout the event.

The Russian talk show Beyond the Edge aired a follow-up special devoted to Anastasia’s murder. The episode featured her mother and Laya, the same woman who had reported Dmitry to police.

During the broadcast, Laya recounted her final conversation with Dmitry. She told the host that he had described Anastasia’s last moments to her directly. According to Laya, Dmitry claimed Anastasia had said, quote, “I love you. Kiss me. Call an ambulance.” This statement, if true, would undermine his earlier suicide claim. However, some medical professionals and online commentators questioned whether such speech would have been physically possible, given the extent of her injuries—particularly the damage to her neck.

Laya also spoke about the condition of the apartment. She recalled how Dmitry had attempted to mask the smell of decomposition by sealing air vents and drains with duct tape, and by spraying large quantities of Anastasia’s perfume throughout the flat. She said the scent lingered heavily in the air, almost suffocating.

Anastasia’s online presence has since been removed. Her adult content accounts were deactivated. Any income generated through those channels is believed to have ceased at the time of her death.

The digital age has made it easier than ever for someone to become a public figure. A phone, a camera, and a consistent online presence can turn an ordinary life into a highly visible one—watched, followed, discussed. But with visibility comes risk. For Anastasia Grishman her status as a TikTok and OnlyFans creator brought her financial freedom and an audience in the hundreds of thousands. It also brought control, resentment, and violence—until one day in August 2022, it ended in her murder.

Anastasia’s life online told one story. At a glance, she appeared confident, successful, admired. Her TikTok page had nearly 300,000 followers. Her adult content, distributed through subscription platforms, earned her more than $60,000 a year. She lived in St. Petersburg, worked as a tattoo artist, and maintained a steady rhythm of content production, bookings, and digital engagement. But behind the scenes, the picture was darker.

Her partner, Dmitry Chernyshov—formerly Dmitry Khamlovsky—was deeply involved in her online life. He acted as her manager. He filmed her videos, handled her schedule, coordinated collaborations, sold digital courses, and managed her appointments as a tattoo artist. Their partnership appeared seamless. But it masked an imbalance of power.

Dmitry was unemployed. He struggled with drug addiction. His income—his stability—depended entirely on Anastasia. The more successful she became, the more control he tried to assert. A friend of the couple would later speculate that Dmitry had been drawn to Anastasia because of her existing online fame—that he saw an opportunity to tap into her reach and profit from it. He wasn’t the first. For some creators, especially women, financial and emotional exploitation by a partner masquerading as a manager has become alarmingly common.

The relationship turned controlling. Dmitry, sources said, isolated Anastasia. He became jealous, especially of the attention she received online and the messages that flooded her direct inbox. When she began seeing another man—a fellow TikToker named Kirill—and made plans to move to South Korea, the situation escalated. She had started cutting Dmitry off financially. She wanted out.

Anastasia’s case joined a growing list of violent acts committed against female online creators. In Italy, an OnlyFans model named Carol Maltesi was killed by an ex-boyfriend, who then used her phone to impersonate her online for months. In the United States and the United Kingdom, streamers like Amouranth, Sweet Anita, and Valkyrae have spoken openly about stalking, threats, and physical confrontations with obsessed followers. The parasocial nature of online fame—where strangers feel intimate with a person they follow—can foster dangerous delusions.

In Russia, the problem has an added layer.

The country is deeply conservative. Pornography, while widely consumed, is technically illegal. Producing it can carry prison time. Even in cities like St. Petersburg—described by some as the “porn capital” of Russia—adult performers face stigma. Anastasia’s decision to appear on national television to discuss her career sparked backlash. Her lifestyle, her tattoos, her openness, made her a target for judgment.

Some argued that such women were from the "lowest fringes." That they were choosing risk. That they brought it on themselves. It’s a sentiment echoed in courtrooms, in sentencing, and in the silence that often surrounds domestic abuse.

In Russia, domestic violence was effectively decriminalized in 2017. First-time offenses that don’t result in serious injury are no longer treated as criminal. This has sent a message—loud and clear. That within the home, brutality might not meet resistance. That control, isolation, and violence are not only possible, but plausible.

Anastasia Grishman’s life was full of ambition, digital success, and self-expression. It ended in silence, hidden behind a locked door, while her name and likeness were manipulated by the man who killed her. Her murder is not just a tragedy—it is a warning. About power, about control, about what happens when someone’s visibility becomes a weapon turned against them.

Her family has not spoken publicly since the airing of the second Beyond the Edge episode.

Dmitry Khamlovsky remains incarcerated. His projected release date has not been made public.