Anya sat on the couch with her knees drawn up to her chin, her trembling arms wrapped around them. Dark red blotches were already blooming on her shoulders and on one elbow where he had gripped her. Small tremors still ran through her, but the victim’s mask was slowly sliding off her face. If Viktor looked into her eyes right now, he would scream in horror. Because there was no pain in them, no sadness, no submission. An icy, savage calculation had flared to life there.
Something doesn’t add up. It doesn’t add up at all.
I didn’t beg to wash that hallway. I didn’t go out of my way to get past the kitchen. He suggested it himself. He lured me out there himself. And that line of his: ‘Clean everything you can reach’… fucking puppeteer. That can be taken two ways, and he knew it. I could reach it. I didn’t disobey an order—I just carried it out too well.
And that hair clip… what the hell was it doing in there? In a duct even cockroaches would have trouble getting through? There was nothing to think about—it was obvious. He put it there himself. Shoved that piece of plastic in there on purpose with those manicured fingers of his so I’d find it. And he watched me through the cameras, waiting for it to happen.
A blatant trap. But why? To take away the scraps of freedom I’d been clawing out of him for weeks? To lock me back down here and take away ‘the bathroom’ and ‘dinner upstairs’? He got scared I was becoming too… domestic? Too confident?
Good thing I remembered his ‘there was nothing there.’ Good thing I threw his own lie back in his face. Now I understand: every word he says is a double-edged sword, but… he still holds all the power… If I were physically stronger, I’d kill him with my bare hands…
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No. That goddamn Architect. He set it all up. He staged this ‘incident’ just to make me feel guilty again. So I’d crawl on my knees and beg forgiveness for something I didn’t do. Fucking bastard.
Doesn’t he need my trust? Or does he just enjoy tormenting me? Does it get him off to see me in that panic, on the floor, under his boot?
Why did he do it?.. Oh, it’s as plain as day. He needed to sabotage my ‘reboot.’ He needed to put me back in my place.
Fine then, Viktor… You wanted me to feel guilty? You wanted to see a broken doll? You got it. But you missed the main thing: you’re the one who taught me that ‘there was nothing there.’ Thank you.
Anya slowly reached for the laptop.
Hidden-volume note:
I screwed up. Once again, I ruined everything.
I’m sitting in the dark, trying to understand: how did it happen? Why are words such a wretched, primitive, unreliable way of conveying thought? We trade sounds, hoping for understanding, and get nothing but chaos. He said: ‘Clean everything you can reach.’ On my own, I can’t reach the ceiling. With chairs, I could. How was I supposed to guess that ‘being able to reach’ excludes using tools? My perfectionism backfired on me. I wanted to give him perfection—and gave him an excuse to rage.
It hurts. And it’s not about the bruises on my shoulders, though his fingers left deep marks. It hurts because he couldn’t just say it. Just explain. Why did it have to be so rough?
But maybe I deserved it. After all, I’m still sitting in this basement, and it seems now I’m beginning to understand why. It was stupid to think there was a place for me upstairs. Probably there simply aren’t any extra rooms. The whole house is his workspace, his fortress. And this is my world.
And he locks me in not because he doesn’t trust me. He locks me in because I am his ‘value’. The only real thing in this world. One stray glance from another man—and I will be defiled. He keeps me in this safe like a rare diamond, so no one would dare even breathe in my direction. This isn’t a prison. It’s protection. The cruel part is that protection can hurt this much.