The basement night was quiet. Viktor had left an hour ago, the heavy smell of food still lingering in the air. Anya opened the laptop. She simply wanted to feel the cool plastic under her fingers—the only thing still linking her to her old life as an office worker.
And then she noticed it.
On the desktop, in the very corner, a semi-transparent folder icon flickered, titled “_”.
What is that? I didn’t create that… Her first thought was sluggish, half-asleep. Anya clicked the icon. Inside were two folders: texts and screenshots.
She opened the first one. There were only three files. She chose the last—and an icy current ran down her spine.
It was a text document containing words she’d typed earlier. Every keystroke, every deleted letter, every correction. “Today he letft the gate open.”
Anya froze. Her breathing turned short and ragged. She wasn’t a computer expert, but the meaning was obvious even to her.
It records… every word I type. Not just what I save. What I type.
But one question immediately punctured it.
Why? The thought hit hard. If the data isn’t going anywhere… if there’s no connection… then why is any of this here?
She opened the screenshots folder. It was empty, but one—the newest—flashed in front of her eyes for a fraction of a second and vanished.
In that moment something like a powerful spotlight switched on in Anya’s mind, lining up scattered facts from the past few months into a single blinding line.
My thirst… I wanted to trigger guilt—and he called it manipulation. I was going to break through the wall—and he showed up immediately. I resisted him inwardly—and he behaved accordingly. I wrote about Mom, and he brought me that conversation… About my last hope—and he erased it. My goodbye… How did he know I was about to step into the noose? And then… the gate… he set up a test…
Her fingers trembled over the keyboard.
So my hidden volume… means nothing. And the lack of a connection means nothing either. He can see my thoughts despite all of it…
The shock was so strong that nausea rose again—not from hunger, weakness, or being broken, but from the sense of total violation.
I thought he understood me. That he read my soul. That he saw right through me. And he—he’d just been peeking through a keyhole the whole time.
She lurched to her feet.
He didn’t save me. He was reading my suicide note live. He was upstairs drinking coffee and watching me type about forgiveness, glancing at the clock. He didn’t feel my pain—he just watched letters appear on his monitor.
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That thought burned worse than any slap. All his “genius” was plain theft.
Suddenly the “_” folder on the desktop blinked and disappeared. Anya flinched. The system had fired automatically: the logs had been sent to Viktor’s server and deleted from her laptop.
But the last file she’d opened—the log with her most recent thoughts—was still hanging there in Notepad. A white rectangle with black letters against the surrounding dark.
Anya stared at the text, and her submission burned to ash.
Cheater. A cheap, ordinary cheater. You made me believe you were a god, that there was no way out. But you were just spying on my head through a technical loophole. Your whole “Protector” act is a set built out of stolen data. You fooled me in the most sacred thing—the right to be alone with my own thoughts.
Hatred flared so hard that Anya felt a surge of physical energy she hadn’t felt in weeks. She was no longer a “plant.” But she wasn’t a victim either. She had become… something else.
Slowly she shifted her gaze from the screen to the dark corners of the basement. A sudden, even colder realization pierced her.
Wait. That explains the thoughts. But what about the actions? That day with the dumbbell. He appeared immediately, as if he knew what I was doing. And the noose? I was standing on the table. I didn’t type “I’m jumping.” I just stepped into the void in silence. And he burst in that same second, cutting the cable… Not just text. Eyes. Ears. There are cameras in here. Tiny ones, hidden in the concrete. Or motion sensors, microphones…
Cold ran down her spine. Anya wanted to whirl around, start searching for lenses, but with an enormous effort of will she forced herself to stay still.
No. If I start looking around, he’ll know I know. If I let my anger show, the game is over.
She straightened. Tilted her head slightly, smoothed her hair—a slow gesture of a calm, serene woman. Fire raged inside her, but outside she put on a mask of absolute stillness.
She sat back down at the table, slowly. Her fingers settled on the keys. Now she knew: every press was a signal going straight to his brain. And every shift of her shoulder was an image on his monitor.
You think you know me because you read my logs? Fine. Then I’ll write for you. I’ll create an “Anya” you deserve. I’ll be your perfect doll, Viktor. I’ll sing you hymns, I’ll paint my devotion in the softest colors. I’ll feed you a lie so sweet you won’t even notice when you hand me the keys to every door.
Her lips twitched, ready to curl into a vicious smile, but she stopped it in time. Her face stayed smooth.
But no, Viktor. I won’t run. I won’t leave you—you’re afraid of that, aren’t you? No. I’ll live with you until I burn your soul and this place down to the ground.
She glanced at the mirror hanging on the side wall. The reflection of her eyes seemed to flare in the half-dark.
God. I was blind. He isn’t an Architect. He’s a coward. A coward who’s afraid of real closeness, so he steals it bit by bit.
My body is still weak, but my mind… God, I can’t calm down—it’s bursting at the seams…
I want to smash that damn mirror he brought and drive a shard into his neck. But no. I can’t. Not like that. That’s what a victim does—and I’m not a victim.
She closed her eyes, remembering her psychology books.
Clever Frankl… you forgot something. You forgot strategy. A goal. I was losing from the start because my goal was to escape, to get away from him. That won’t be the goal anymore. You only win a war when your goal is to destroy the enemy. Defense is the road to defeat.
She opened the hidden volume and the file inside it. The cursor blinked, waiting for her input. Waiting for lies.
You miserable nothing. I’ll drag you down until you’re nothing but a soulless animal and break your will any way I can. And while you choke on ecstasy reading about my devotion, I’ll be dismantling you—brick by brick, wall by wall. Because a man who builds love on logs doesn’t deserve even pity. You’re not my world. You’re an obstacle I have to destroy. And I will.
She began to type. But not those thoughts. She began typing words about how calm she felt, how grateful she was for the soup, and how much she was looking forward to tomorrow morning.
She fed the keylogger poison wrapped in sugar.