Morning came. The basement didn’t smell of perfume—it smelled of sweat and warm skin. Anya was in her underwear again, running in place. But now there was nothing coquettish in her movements. Her eyes were fixed on a single point on the wall. This wasn’t a “performance.” It was work.
Viktor came down. He froze, seeing the same sight that had unsettled him the day before.
“Again?” His voice sounded tired and irritated. “Anya, we cleared this up yesterday. Your little seduction act doesn’t work anymore. Put your dress on. This looks pathetic.”
Without slowing down, she answered in an even, almost mechanical voice:
“This isn’t a ploy, Viktor. And I don’t give a damn what it looks like.”
She let out a sharp breath.
“You said I had to be sincere. Well—sincerely, my body needs movement so I don’t go insane. Running in a dress is uncomfortable.”
Viktor narrowed his eyes, trying to find the catch.
“You’re trying to use my discomfort again. You know it’s unpleasant for me to see you… like this.”
She stopped. Sweat ran down her collarbones. She looked at him without a trace of ingratiation.
“If you don’t like it—evict me.”
A pause hung in the air.
“Put me out on the street, and you’ll never have to look at my sweat or my underwear again. The door’s up there.”
Viktor went still. He hadn’t expected such a direct answer. There was no “come on, you won’t” in her words—there was cold indifference. She was truly offering to end it if her appearance offended his sensibilities.
“You know I won’t do that,” he said quietly.
Stolen story; please report.
“Then accept the rules of the game. I’m locked in here. My wings atrophy, remember? Well, I don’t want to be crippled. I need tools to stay in shape.”
“Tools?”
Anya went to the table and picked up a sheet of paper where she’d already sketched out a list in pencil.
“I need supplements—protein, vitamins. Dumbbells—at least five kilos. A sports watch so I can track my heart rate and time. And books. Not novels. I need esoteric psychology, books on self-regulation, something on Jung and Gurdjieff. I want to understand how consciousness works when the world around you disappears. And a treadmill. The simplest one.”
Viktor took the list. He studied it for a long time, trying to find the catch.
Dumbbells—heavy, could be a weapon. But five kilos was ridiculous against his size. A sports watch—there was no connection, only sensors. Safe. Books—philosophy, psychology. Safe. A treadmill—too bulky, too noisy. And it gave her one more chance to feel the rhythm of escape.
He looked up, and there was a strange relief in his eyes.
“No treadmill. Too much space. The rest…” He let out a short snort. “Protein and esoterica. You’ve decided to enter the monastery of your own body?”
“I’ve decided to become myself. Because I don’t even know who I am.”
He felt she was telling the truth. There was no hidden angle in this request, no attempt to get at him—it was about herself.
“Fine. I’ll bring everything. No more pretending, Anya… This suits you much better than the blue dress.”
He left. She watched him go.
Anya didn’t rejoice at the victory. She knew: the sports watch was, above all, a timer. The dumbbells meant striking power. The esoteric books were a way to enter a state of “emptiness,” where his insight would hit a blank wall. She started building her world inside herself, since she wasn’t allowed one outside.
Hidden-volume note:
I’m at a dead end. I have to admit it. All my attempts to play ‘psychologist’ or ‘seductress’ were just entertainment for him. He saw my cards before I even pulled them out. It’s nauseating—realizing your mind is an open book to him.
I don’t have an escape plan. I have no idea how to open the door. I just don’t know what to do next.
But I know one thing: if I sit and cry, I’ll turn into that atrophied bird. So I’ll do something. I’ll run until I drop. I’ll lift those weights until my arms give out. I’ll read that esoteric crap just to keep my brain busy with something other than fear.
Why? I don’t know. Maybe one day he’ll forget to lock the door, and I’ll need strong legs to run faster than the wind. Maybe I’ll have to fight. Or maybe those books will help me keep my pulse from giving me away the next time I lie.
I’m just raising the odds. From 0.1% to 0.2%. It’s ridiculously small. But it’s all I have. I don’t want to be a ‘sincere’ victim. I want to be a tool that waits for its moment.