Anya forced herself up. Her body screamed with pain, but fear was stronger. She crawled to the hole. Carefully sliding a trembling hand inside, she groped through the dusty darkness and found cold metal. Five kilos. The dumbbell now felt like the only reliable thing in this hell.
In the half-light, the bones looked like a dull smear. Anya could smell them—dry, stale. But then that same cold draft touched her wet face again, this time from somewhere to the right of the skeleton.
“Sorry,” she whispered, forcing herself not to look into the empty eye sockets. “I need to get through.”
She gripped the dumbbell and brought it down on the drywall beside the opening, widening the hole toward the draft. A dry, muffled crunch. White crumbs and dust rained onto her face and knees. One blow. Another. She chipped away piece after piece. Every swing sent a sharp flare of pain through her bruised ribs, stole her breath—but she didn’t stop.
When the opening was wide enough, Anya saw a narrow void behind the wall. She squeezed into it without thinking, and a sound came from above.
It wasn’t the lock. It was metal scraping on metal, as if someone were sharpening a knife or getting some tool ready. And then—heavy footsteps…
Beyond the skeleton, a crawlspace opened into the dark. Fighting the flashes of pain in her ribs, Anya wedged herself into it and crawled forward. She had to leave the dumbbell—every centimeter mattered in this crawl.
The crawlspace was so tight her shoulders rubbed against the rough walls. She dragged herself forward on her elbows, choking on dust. Ahead, the tunnel split: one branch dropped steeply downward, cold air rising from it; the other—wider—ran straight.
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Not down, she thought. Down is deeper into the foundation. I need up, to air. Left passage. God—please don’t let it be a dead end.
Behind her, from the basement, Viktor’s muffled growl carried through. Then came a heavy thud—he’d found the crawl.
“Run, run, little rat!” His voice echoed through the pipes. “I know this house brick by brick. You’re crawling through old drainage channels. You think there’s an exit? There’s only steel and concrete!”
Anya crawled faster, scraping her elbows raw. She could hear his steps—heavy, sure. He wasn’t coming in after her; he was moving outside, along the corridors of the first floor, listening for the rustle behind the walls. He was playing the hunter, driving the animal into a corner.
The tunnel ended abruptly. A weak gray light seeped into view. She saw a vent grille—and beyond it, a door. A back door leading out of what looked like a garage or boiler room. Freedom smelled of rain and pine needles.
She lunged forward, knocked the grille loose, and crawled out onto the cold tiled floor. The door was only a meter away. Anya reached for the handle, her fingers already touching the cold metal…
And in that moment, an arm—powerful and unyielding—locked across her chest.
“Predictable, Anya,” Viktor said calmly, almost casually. “The boiler room is a dead end.”
He yanked her back so hard the back of her head slammed into his chest. She screamed, clawed at his hands, but he simply dragged her toward the door that led back into the house.
She fought in his grip as he dragged her back down the stairs. Bright light burned in the basement. Viktor threw her onto the couch and pinned her with his full weight, pressing her shoulders into the cushions.
“No! Kill me now! Do you hear me?! Don’t you dare!” she screamed.
Viktor didn’t answer. His face was pale, his eyes empty. With one hand he held both her wrists; with the other he pulled a syringe from his pocket.
“You need to sleep. Your ‘process’ has reached a dead end. We need a reset.”
Anya felt a cold jab at the base of her neck. Almost at once, sharp heat spread through her body; a strange tingling seized her fingers. A rush of sound filled her ears, the world began to fade, and the overhead light smeared into a dull blur. The last thing she saw was his face looming over her, stripped of any pity.