That evening, Viktor blindfolded her with her own blue scarf. He led her up the stairs, holding her by the elbow—almost gently, but with an unbreakable grip. A turn to the right, then left. The creak of parquet underfoot. The smell of seared meat and fresh bread.
“Two more steps… stop,” he whispered in her ear. “Wait. Don’t open your eyes yet. I want you to feel this moment.”
He untied the knot. The scarf slid away. Anya blinked in the unusually bright, warm light of the chandelier.
It was an ordinary, cozy kitchen—one she’d only glimpsed before. Light wood. A modern stove. Two plates with steaks on the table, and a bottle of wine. But something was off. Anya turned her head.
The windows were covered with heavy metal shutters that fit tightly against the frames. And the door to the hallway was secured with a massive locking bolt—Viktor slid it into place the second they came in.
“Well?” he asked proudly, pulling out a chair for her. “How do you like it? Almost like a restaurant, right? I marinated the meat myself.”
Anya sat down slowly, taking it all in. Her gaze lingered on the windows.
“It’s really beautiful, Viktor. And it smells like… an actual home. But… why are the windows shut so tight? It’s evening. It must be nice outside.”
For a moment, the calm drained from his face.
“Outside is chaos, Anya. Dirt, noise, other people’s eyes. Why would we need that?” His voice hardened. “In here, behind those shutters, only what I allow exists. It’s a perfect space.”
She made her voice sound not frightened, but curious—almost childlike.
“But you can’t even hear birds. And the door… you bolted it from the inside.” She glanced at the lock. “Aren’t we safe in your house? Are you afraid of someone?”
He started pouring the wine; his movements were precise, mechanical.
“I’m not afraid. I control. Do you understand the difference? If the door is locked, I know no one’s coming in. If the windows are sealed, I know you’re looking at me, not at some random passerby.” He set the bottle down. “You don’t need what’s behind the glass. Out there is uncertainty. In here—there’s me.”
Anya picked up her fork. Her hand passed within a centimeter of one of the kitchen knives near the edge of the counter; she noticed it was a chef’s knife—very sharp.
“You thought of everything,” she said carefully. “Even the shutters. They look… solid. Like steel.”
He smiled, flattered by her attention to detail.
“Aircraft-grade aluminum. Motorized. The remote stays with me.” He patted his pocket. “They’ll stand up to a crowbar. I designed this security system for a client once, then decided my house needed it more.” His smile widened. “You have nothing to worry about. Not a sound will carry outside, and not a single sliver of light will give us away.”
She took a sip of wine, feeling it burn down her throat.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“That’s… impressive. You’re like Captain Nemo on the Nautilus. The whole world is underwater, and you’ve got your own paradise.”
She paused.
“Only… Captain Nemo at least let Aronnax look out at the ocean.”
His gaze warmed—he loved comparisons like that.
“When you’re ready to see the ‘ocean’ through my eyes, I’ll open them,” he said softly. “But for now—eat. The meat will get cold.”
While Viktor launched into an enthusiastic monologue about the wine, Anya took a silent inventory of the room.
Knives. Magnetic strip by the stove. Five blades. Accessible if she could distract him for ten seconds.
Windows. Metal shutters. Controlled by a remote (in Viktor’s pocket). Escape through the window was impossible without the remote.
Door. Massive locking bolt. Could it slide open?
Phone. A landline on the wall, but the cord had been cut. Useless.
She thought:
He hadn’t locked just me. He’d locked himself in with me. His fear of the world was so great he’d turned his home into a bunker. That meant his weakness was his need for total isolation. If I found a way to let the “outside world” in here, his whole system would collapse.
…
The wine bottle was almost empty. The cozy bunker-kitchen was warm. Anya sat a little more relaxed than usual; her movements had softened; her gaze had gone slightly unfocused. Viktor watched her closely—his own defenses were starting to crack under the alcohol and the triumph of this “perfect evening.”
Anya slowly slid her empty glass away and rested her chin on her palm, looking up at Viktor from beneath her lashes.
“You know, Viktor…” Her voice was low, faintly husky. “The wine makes all of this… less frightening. Your kitchen. The light.” She let the words linger. “For a second it felt like I’d just come to visit a very… cautious friend.”
His eyes flashed.
“Cautious?” he repeated. “That’s a good word. The world doesn’t deserve trust, Anya. But you… you’re starting to understand.”
She rose slowly, swaying a little, and walked around the table. She stopped beside his chair—so close he could feel the warmth of her body.
“I’m starting to understand that I’m very tired of fighting.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingers barely brushing the side of his neck.
“It’s so quiet here. In the basement the silence presses down on you, but up here it… wraps around you.”
He went still. His breathing deepened; he was afraid to move, afraid to shatter the moment.
“I made this silence for us,” he said. “So no one could interfere.”
She leaned closer. Her hair brushed his cheek. She inhaled his cologne, swallowing down the nausea.
“You’re such a… complicated man. You design systems. You build bunkers.” Her palm drifted over his chest, feeling the quick beat of his heart under her fingers. “But who protects you, Viktor?”
He took her hand—not roughly, but with something like desperate tenderness.
“I don’t need protection,” he said. “I need you to be on my side. I need you to… appreciate what I’m doing.”
She didn’t pull away. If anything, she pressed in closer, as if the wine had made her lose her balance.
“I do,” she murmured. “I really do.”
She looked into his eyes; her face was only a couple of inches from his.
“Your shoulders are so tense… All that control must be exhausting.” She let her voice drop. “May I…?”
She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in the curve of his shoulder.
The perfect moment.
He closed his eyes and hugged her back. His fingers dug into the fabric of her blue dress.
“Anya…” he whispered. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to just… stop hating me.”
“Shh,” she breathed. “Don’t talk about hate. It’s such a warm evening. Let’s just… stay like this.”
Viktor pulled back sharply. A wave of suspicion hit him—he wasn’t used to tenderness, and it scared him as much as it drew him in.
“It’s time for you to go back down,” he said, suddenly sober and wary. “The wine’s gone to your head. You don’t even know what you’re doing.”
She withdrew her hand quickly, acting hurt by his coldness.
“I just wanted to be closer… Isn’t that what you wanted?”
He stood up, and his face became a mask again.
“I want it to be real. Not just because of the wine. Come on.”
Hidden-volume note:
He keeps the keys in his left pocket. The shutter remote is there too.
He’s afraid of physical closeness as much as he craves it.
Next time I don’t need wine. I need to make him believe his “fortress” is our shared castle.