Monday began with a deafening silence. After the usual, almost mechanical breakfast, Viktor left. Anya heard the heavy front door slam upstairs, then the muffled growl of the car engine fade into the distance.
Now she was alone.
All day she behaved flawlessly. She remembered the “eyes” of the cameras and the “ears” of the sensors. She moved through the basement smoothly, almost without a sound, as if afraid to scare away the fragile atmosphere of trust she had built for so long. She read, turning the pages as quietly as possible; she looked things up on the laptop, maintaining the appearance of a calm routine. She didn’t go near the stairs. She didn’t even look that way. She was the perfect exhibit in an empty museum.
When Viktor returned, his movements carried fatigue and… a strange guilt. He didn’t simply come down for her—he called her upstairs with an unusual, almost apologetic softness.
The kitchen didn’t smell of home cooking, but of something spiced, complex, expensive. Boxes from a good restaurant sat on the table. Viktor, apparently remembering her earlier “wolfish” appetite, didn’t try to turn it into some fine-dining performance with tiny portions. He put down a double serving right away—juicy steaks in a creamy sauce, roasted vegetables, a thick cream soup.
“Eat, Anya,” he said quietly, sitting across from her. “I know it was a long day.”
She didn’t hesitate. She pounced on the food with ruthless, mechanical efficiency. All the hunger she’d been holding down during the day, trying to be “value,” burst out. She wasn’t eating—she was consuming. Viktor barely touched his own portion, watching the meat disappear into her at an alarming speed.
Finally, when the plate was empty and her stomach was stretched to the limit, Anya set her cutlery down. A heavy, sleepy warmth spread through her body. She looked up at Viktor, feeling real, physical gratitude.
“Delicious, Viktor. Thank—”
She was about to say the rest—you so much—but her body decided otherwise.
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The air she’d swallowed along with those greedy bites of steak burst out as a loud, involuntary burp.
In the sterile kitchen silence, the sound went off like a gunshot.
Anya jerked, almost startled, knocking her elbow against the table. She immediately twisted sideways in her chair, covering her mouth with the back of her fingers, as if she could push the sound back inside. Her cheeks flared crimson, the tips of her ears burned, and her eyes darted around the kitchen, searching for a way out of the unbearable awkwardness.
She shot him one glance—he was silent. A second—his face was a frozen mask.
“Sorry…” she whispered into her hand, not daring to look up. “Please… I’m so sorry.”
A pause fell. Viktor sat there in stunned silence. In his plans for the “perfect doll,” there was no place for anything this crude. His eyebrows rose slowly, and a complicated mix of feelings crossed his face—from fastidious disgust to deep, technical concern.
“Yes…” he said at last, in a dry, almost clinical tone. “Something really needs to be done about that.”
He got up and began gathering the empty boxes in silence.
She thought (back in the basement):
God… what a shame. My cheeks are still burning. That wasn’t just awkward—it was genuinely dangerous.
I need to be more careful. Much more careful. My biology is my most treacherous enemy. I got so caught up in the role of “value” that I forgot: value isn’t supposed to remind anyone it came from an animal.
If I become disgusting to him—if I ruin that sterile, ethereal image he drew for himself—he’ll… He’ll just get rid of me.
What use would a broken tool be to him, anyway? Why would he keep a project that threw errors at the most basic level?
I know it. I’m not the first. And when a project is declared a failure, it gets shut down. Wiped, so the next attempt can start from a clean slate.
I’m walking along the knife-edge, and today I stepped too hard. I felt it cut into skin. One wrong move, one too-human display that doesn’t fit his ideals—and that blade will split me in half.
“Something needs to be done about that,” he said. From him, it doesn’t sound like care. It sounds like a technical procedure. He’s going to “fix” me. And God help me if I malfunction again.
To him, I’m a result. And results must be flawless. Otherwise they get thrown onto the scrap heap of history.
Hidden-volume note:
I don’t even want to remember it. And now, in the basement dark, I can feel my face burning. I want to disappear, dissolve, so he never thinks of that slip again.
That sound… the way he looked at me…
I saw his gaze. That’s how you look at an expensive thing that suddenly turns out to be ruined beyond repair. I must have looked dirty to him—all flesh and instinct. What a nightmare…
And how did I even fit that much? Why couldn’t I stop?
Never again. I must never let that happen again. NEVER.