Moving out of the basement was, for Anya, a gulp of thin, dangerous air. Viktor, buoyed by her submissiveness, began dismantling the walls of her cage—one after another, with the pride of an architect who believes his building now stands on its own, without supports.
First he allowed her to go into the garden with him not only in the evening, but in the morning as well. Then, two weeks later, he permitted her to go out there on her own. But for no more than twenty-one minutes. Twenty minutes for the walk itself, and exactly one minute total to get out and back in.
Viktor set up a series of tests, which Anya understood at once. Several times he left the gate in the fence slightly open—just a couple of centimeters—and watched either through hidden cameras or from his study window. The path to the forest, to the road, to the life she had almost forgotten, was free.
Anya stepped out into the garden, squinting in real sunlight. She saw the gap. It seemed like one dash—and that would be it.
But she stopped. She let Viktor savor the sight of her obedience.
One day she got tired of it. She strode briskly up to the gate, making Viktor sweat in front of the monitor, yanked it shut, and slid the bolt into place. She locked herself in. It was her greatest gift to him: voluntary slavery.
For Viktor, it became a drug. His faith that he had “healed” her, “trained” her, “tamed” her hardened into absolute certainty. He no longer saw a captive in her; he saw his creation.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Buoyed by confidence, Viktor decided to conduct the final test.
“Anya, I need to go on a business trip for two days,” he said over breakfast, casually checking documents. “You’ll be alone. I’ve disabled the sensors and the locking systems, so you can move around freely and make noise. I’m trusting you with the house.”
As usual, Anya pretended to be mildly upset, but since there was nothing she could do, she accepted it obediently.
He left. Or seemed to have. She couldn’t know for sure. She had never actually heard the engine start.
Now the house seemed empty, but to her it rang with tension.
She didn’t go to the front door even once. She didn’t check the windows. She kept to her usual routine: made herself a light breakfast, read books in the living room, and went out into the garden morning and evening—for exactly twenty minutes.
When, two days later, Viktor came into the house, he looked somewhat disoriented. He had expected to find something: an escape attempt, some attempt to test the boundaries—and a frightened woman when he caught her at it.
Instead—nothing. Only Anya, calmly watering the flowers in the living room when he appeared.
“You’re back, Viktor?” she asked gently, and there wasn’t a trace of unease in her voice. “How was the trip? Without you the house was too quiet.”
Viktor looked at her with superstitious awe. Her “result” showed no cracks. She was perfect. He came closer and touched her cheek; his hand trembled. He believed he had defeated human nature itself.
You’re pathetic, Viktor. You thought I’d fall for your ‘business trip’?
You’re so proud that I didn’t run. It doesn’t even occur to you that I’m not running because escape isn’t my goal. Because I’m not done with you yet. You believe in your ‘result’? Believe. The stronger your faith, the closer you are to the cliff edge I’m leading you toward.