1:30 p.m. The basement was stifling. Viktor brought a tray: a bowl of thick chicken soup and a mug of herbal tea. He looked pleased with himself—the role of “caring provider” clearly flattered him.
He set the tray on the table.
“As promised. Chicken broth. Homemade. It’ll give you strength. I even added some croutons, the way you like.”
She looked worn out; her lips were dry.
“Thank you…” She took the spoon. Her hands were shaking.
She swallowed three or four spoonfuls under his intent, expectant look.
“Well? Is it salty enough?”
Suddenly she froze. Her face turned gray.
“Yes… very…”
She shoved the bowl away, clapped a hand over her mouth, and, barely managing to get up, rushed behind the plastic screen hiding the toilet. The sound of vomiting followed. Viktor sprang up; his face twisted not with anger, but with genuine, almost childlike fear. He took a step toward the screen, then stopped.
“Anya! What’s wrong? Did something make you sick? That can’t be—everything was fresh!”
From behind the screen came her hoarse, broken voice, her words catching between sobs:
“Viktor, please… bring something… activated charcoal… or something for the cramps. There were pills in my bag… please…”
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He panicked. He couldn’t let what he valued break.
“Yes, yes, right now! I’ll check the medicine cabinet. Do you hear me? Just breathe!”
Viktor turned and all but ran for the stairs. His steps were heavy and fast. He slammed the door upstairs… but Anya didn’t hear the familiar double turn of the key. Only the dull thud of wood against the frame.
She waited five seconds. Her heart hammered in her throat. The nausea was still there, but adrenaline drowned out the pain. She stepped out from behind the screen, almost soundless.
The stairs felt endless. Every step threatened to betray her with a creak. She reached the door. A trembling hand closed around the handle. She pressed down.
The door gave.
She found herself in a narrow hallway on the first floor. It smelled of old wood and men’s cologne. Ahead was light, and a heavy front door.
She ran, swaying. The kitchen flashed past—she saw Viktor with his back to her, frantically digging through a cupboard, scattering little boxes.
Three more meters. Just three meters…
She flew to the front door, grabbed the handle, yanked—locked. A heavy mortise lock that could only be opened with a key. She searched wildly for a thumbturn or a key in the lock, but there was nothing. The keys were in Viktor’s pocket.
She yanked harder in panic, forgetting about silence. Metal clanged.
“Anya?” came from the kitchen; his voice changed instantly—from concern to icy rage.
She turned. He stood in the doorway, a pack of pills in his hand. His face was pale, his eyes wide with the shock of betrayal.
“You… you lied to me.”
She pressed her back to the door, gasping.
“Please, Viktor, open it! I just want air—I won’t call the police, I swear!”
He walked toward her. His voice trembled with hurt.
“I believed you. I went to get medicine. I was worried… and you were just waiting for me to make a mistake. You took advantage of my kindness.”
“This isn’t kindness! This is a cage! Open the door!” she screamed.
He lunged and grabbed her by the shoulder. Anya tried to hit him, to claw at his face, but she was too weak after days of confinement and that bout of vomiting. He easily caught her hands, turned her, and—almost without effort, but with a kind of mechanical cruelty—dragged her back toward the basement.
“So three times a day is too much freedom. So you’re not ready yet.”
He shoved her into the basement. She fell onto the steps. The door closed. This time he turned the key three times in the lock. Slowly. Savoring every rotation.