Anya opened her eyes. Her head was splitting, and her mouth tasted of metal and chemicals. She tried to move, but her whole body felt heavy, as if it had been filled with lead.
She looked around—and went cold.
The basement had changed. Where yesterday there had been a hole in the wall and a chalk-white skeleton, there was now a flawlessly even stretch of fresh brickwork. The mortar hadn’t fully dried yet, but the job had been done with engineering precision.
Her eyes slid to the corner where yesterday her dumbbells and mat had been. Empty. There were no protein tubs on the table. There was no fitness watch on her wrist—only the strap mark on her skin. The esoterica books were gone.
Viktor had removed everything—except the laptop. He had erased the last few days of her “growth,” her small victories, her weapons. He had returned her to the point where it had all begun—only now the walls were thicker, and hope was thinner.
Hidden-volume note:
He erased everything. No dumbbells. No watch. I’m just a piece of meat in a concrete box again.
He outplayed me. He knew about the tunnels. He let me believe I could escape, just so he could crush that belief at the last second. The injection… I don’t know what it was, but I still can’t feel the fingers of my right hand.
A full reset. He showed me he can take anything at any second. All my training feels like mockery now. I’m afraid of every sound upstairs again…
She set the laptop aside and sat on the edge of the couch, staring at a single point—the fresh brickwork. Her ribs ached, her right side was swollen with a dark bruise, and her head still rang from the drug.
From above came the creak of steps. This time Viktor wasn’t walking; he was almost creeping. When he came in, the basement filled with the smell of vanilla and rich pastry cream.
“Good morning, Anya.” His voice was soft, enveloping, as if he were talking to a sick child. “I brought you breakfast. Your favorite éclairs from that café on the corner… remember, you mentioned it?”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
He set a tray on the table. Beside the pastry box lay something peach-colored—a silk slip dress, thin, almost weightless.
“Where are my books, Viktor?” Anya’s voice sounded dull, drained of any energy.
He froze; his face darkened for a moment, but he quickly put the caring mask back on.
“The books… they were stirring you up too much. Esoterica, psychology… it’s all unnecessary noise. You need to rest. You pushed yourself too far—you started seeing ghosts where there aren’t any.”
He ran his hand over the silk.
“Look how soft it is. It won’t press on the bruises. Put it on. For me.”
She lifted her eyes to him slowly. They looked like two empty mirrors.
“You bricked her up. Right into the wall.”
“There’s no one there!” he snapped. “There’s only brick and concrete. You were delirious, Anya. You had a nervous breakdown from physical strain. Exercise, you know, without supervision is dangerous. You gave yourself those injuries when you were thrashing around the basement.”
He took an éclair and held it out to her.
“Eat. Sugar will help your brain recover.”
She took the éclair mechanically. Her fingers brushed his hand; she didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch.
“Okay. If you say so… then it was delirium.”
His eyes lit up with joy—he wanted to believe that lie more than she did.
“That’s my good girl. See? Everything is going back to where it belongs. You’re my quiet, reasonable Anya again. Rest.”
She thought:
I’m alive. That’s strange. After what I saw, after I tried to escape… he should have eliminated me. Someone who seals bones inside walls doesn’t leave witnesses. But he did. Why? Maybe I’m not a witness to him. I’m his religion. The only parishioner in his temple of madness.
But the rules have changed. Now he knows he can hit me. Before there was some invisible line—some maniac’s “chivalry.” Now it’s gone. The clip was what set him off. Now I’m not only a “relic” to him—I’m a punching bag he can punish for “wrong thoughts.” At least now he probably won’t bring another cat—why would he need intermediaries if he can hurt me directly?
God, I fucked up. I rushed it. I imagined myself a strategist, and in reality I just poked a predator with a stick. If I’d kept training, if I’d worked my way into his trust for months… I wouldn’t be lying here now, smelling like vanilla and medicine. I lost the battle. Shattered.
There’s no way out. I look at that fresh brickwork and I understand: behind it isn’t just a skeleton. Behind it is my old “me,” the one that believed in logic. How do you win a war when the enemy has all the keys, all the weapons, and even the right to decide what reality is?
I have only one way to survive. If he wants to play with quiet, reasonable Anya—I’ll be whatever he wants me to be. I’ll wear his silk. I’ll do what he says. I can’t win a battle with someone who sees right through me…