The week turned into a quiet, almost meditative performance. Every evening at the same time, Viktor opened the basement door and took her upstairs to have dinner together at a real table. Anya quickly understood that the “Cheater” wasn’t looking for obedience alone, but for confirmation of his theory: that his care could turn a “wild, broken creature” into a “grateful domestic value.” That realization became her main weapon.
Hidden-volume notes:
July 7
Tonight’s dinner was very simple. Chicken, rice, the ordinary light of the lamp above the table. No theatrics. And strangely enough, it hit me harder than all his earlier attempts to stage a celebration. In that everydayness I felt something… real.
I caught myself simply listening to the sound of his footsteps on the tile. Before, every such sound made me tense up, and now I catch it like a rhythm my pulse falls into. I ate slowly. That animal hunger that scared me so much last time has eased. Apparently, once you start believing there will be food tomorrow and the day after, there’s no need to grab everything at once.
Viktor’s calm seeps into me through these dinners. He sits across from me, and there’s no threat in his silence. There’s only… expectation? Or simply acceptance that I’m here. And I really am here.
July 9
Something strange shorted out inside me today. Viktor finished dinner and started gathering the plates. I watched him carry them to the sink, and everything in me literally screamed with embarrassment. My old life, my upbringing—everything demanded that I jump up, take the dishes from him, wash them. It felt like such a natural gesture of gratitude for the cooking, for bringing me out of the basement darkness.
But I didn’t move. I gripped the edge of my dress and forced myself to stay seated.
I remembered what he said about ‘value.’ Does value fuss at the sink? Does a painting help the restorer clean the stretcher? If I start showing that kind of domestic eagerness, I’ll ruin everything he’s building. I’ll become that fussy, pathetic Anya again—the one who tried to earn love through “usefulness.”
It was so painful to sit and watch him work. It felt like disrespect. But then I understood: my highest respect for him is my obedience. My ability to stay still and accept his care with no conditions in return. My urge to help is just selfishness—wanting to ease my own conscience, not actually help him. I have to learn to kill those impulses in myself.
July 11
He spends hours on me. Every evening. I sit in the kitchen and count minutes: now he slices bread, now he makes tea, now he just looks out the window with me. Sometimes it scares me how much of his life he gives me. Do I have the right to that?
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Once he talked about ‘family.’ I thought about it for a long time today. Family, as he understands it, isn’t a democracy. It’s an organism. Every organ has its function. The heart doesn’t try to do the kidneys’ job. Viktor is the brain and hands of this house. And I… I’m probably its soul? Or is that too much vanity? Maybe I’m what keeps it all moving.
If I start asserting my will, offering help, trying to “participate,” I’ll just introduce chaos into his perfect blueprint. My task is to be. To be beautiful, to be calm, to be here. It sounds so simple, but it’s hard for me. And is it even right? I don’t understand.
July 13
A week of kitchen dinners has passed. I catch myself thinking less and less about the lock on the basement door. The kitchen has become my second world. It smells of spices and warmth.
Today I hesitated again. I wanted to ask, ‘Viktor, maybe I could at least wipe the table?’ The words were already on my tongue. But I bit it back just in time.
These constant contradictions exhaust me. Every minute while he wipes crumbs from the table or sets out plates, I’m fighting a draining war inside myself. Who am I here? Am I still someone capable of caring, or an expensive object that needs to be tended? This uncertainty keeps me awake. I don’t fully understand my place in this house—am I a guest, family, or already part of him?
Sometimes it feels like I’m turning into a shadow afraid to disturb the flawless order his hands have set. It’s almost physically painful—to feel a living desire to be useful and then crush it at birth as if it were something shameful and dirty. I’m stuck in a void between who I was and who he wants me to be. Do I have the right to make even the smallest gesture on my own? Or is any action of mine an attempt to stain his work with my imperfection?
These torments drain me. But maybe truth is born in this agony.
My thoughts about independence are stupid. They’re like static on a radio, keeping the pure music of his will from coming through. I won’t even allow myself to think about ‘helping’ anymore. I’ll just accept. Deeply, sincerely, silently.
I am his value. And value has no hands for dirty work. But even the most precious value has its function in the master’s hands. If he decides I should be not only a reflection in his eyes, but part of his great design—I’ll accept that role with delight. If he gives me a function, I’ll fulfill it flawlessly. I want to be not an obstacle to his will, but its continuation.
She closed the laptop slowly. In the basement darkness, the sound was like a trap snapping shut—but this time, not on her. Anya sank back into the pillow, feeling a strange, almost narcotic satisfaction spreading through her body.
It wasn’t rage. It was a clean, cold aesthetic of sabotage.
So, my Gardener? You’re there already, aren’t you? Sitting in your chair, squinting at the screen, rereading these lines. Feeling that sweet pull under your ribs as you realize your own greatness.
Look how beautifully I wrote it. How neatly I wove your own words into the fabric of my “madness.” See how perfectly I chose the words? “The pure music of his will”… “A reflection in his eyes”… It’s exactly what you wanted to see. I paid you back in your own coin—only polished to a shine by my lie.
Swallow it, my dear Gardener. Drink this nectar, choke on delight. I’m feeding you what you love most in the world—your own reflection turned into a cult. Enjoy the taste of my “submission.” It’ll soak through you, lull your fear, make you believe you’re safe.
And then I’ll come. The real me. The one you never managed to see. The one who will make you remember that flowers don’t just have thorns—they have roots too, roots that can crack the foundation of even the strongest house…