The lightbulb in the basement glowed dimly. She had washed her face and even combed her hair with her fingers—not for him, but so she wouldn’t feel completely broken. From upstairs came the muffled sound of a TV: the news, or some talk show. It reminded her that life was going on just a couple of meters above her.
She heard the lock click, then footsteps. He came down with a tray. This time, it smelled of home cooking—roast chicken. He had changed into a cardigan and looked relaxed.
Setting the tray on the stool, he noticed she’d eaten the food from that morning.
“Good girl. The body wants what it wants—you can’t fight nature. I made dinner. My signature recipe. My mother always said I had a talent for sauces.”
She sat on the couch with her legs tucked under her. Her voice was steadier now, but there was a hard edge to it.
“Did you rehearse this for a long time?”
He froze as he opened the food container.
“What are you talking about?”
“Talking like this. Like we’re… just having dinner. Like I’m not locked in here. Did you rehearse it in front of a mirror?”
He gave a quiet chuckle and sat down in his usual spot—the bottom step.
“You focus too much on what this looks like and too little on the point. The point is that we’re both calm right now. You’re here, I’m here. That noisy, dirty world is up there. And down here, everything is honest.”
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She leaned forward a little, catching his gaze.
“Honest? Honest is when a person can leave. Do you really think I’ll ever love you in this room? Even if years pass. All you’ll see in my eyes is this basement. Is that enough for you?”
His expression softened. Something frighteningly fanatical flashed in his eyes.
“At first—yes. But Stockholm syndrome is a stupid term, Anya. In reality, they use it instead of something simple: a person’s ability to value the one who keeps them alive. I feed you. I protect you. With time, you’ll start to see in me not a kidnapper, but the only one you can rely on.”
She took a deep breath, trying to change tactics.
“What’s your name? You said a name doesn’t matter, but… if we’re a ‘family’ now, I can’t call you ‘hey.’”
A pause followed. He considered the question as if weighing the risk.
“Viktor. You can call me that.”
“Viktor,” she repeated, tasting the name and trying not to show her disgust. “Do you have photos? Up there? In frames? What do you do for work, Viktor? You’re not just ‘taking time off.’”
“You want to put together a profile for the police?” he asked with mild suspicion. “Looking for clues?”
“I’m trying to understand who killed me. Because the Anya who was out there, on the street—she’s dead. You killed her last night. Now there’s someone else here. And that someone needs to know who she’s sharing the air with.”
Impressed by her words, he let his guard drop for a moment.
“I’m a design engineer. I work on ventilation systems. That’s why it’s easy to breathe down here, Anya. I rebuilt this basement myself. I’d been getting it ready for you for six months.”
Her heart stopped at the words “six months.”
“So you thought of everything… even the possibility that one day I might want to kill myself?”
He sprang up. Anger twisted his face; the calm fell away like a shell.
“Don’t you dare. Don’t even think about it. You’re not your own. You’re what I value most. If you try to hurt yourself, I—”
He cut himself off, took a breath, and put the calm mask back on.
“Eat. The chicken will get cold. I brought you a blanket—at night it’ll be chilly.”
He took the empty mug and the bag he’d brought her in the morning and left, and this time he shut the door with a sharp clang.
She stared at the chicken. She felt sick, but she picked up the fork. She needed strength. Now she knew his name and his job. The monster had taken shape.