Time had hardened into a dead, airless routine. For Anya, every day looked like the one before it: the same breakfasts, the same polite conversations about books, the same walks through the garden where she knew every blade of grass. She felt like an actress in an endless, drawn-out play whose script hadn’t changed in months.
Inside, she was boiling over. She wanted to scream, smash dishes, swear at the top of her lungs from that suffocating monotony. Her mind, already honed by struggle and risk, now ached from the endless sameness.
When is my chance going to come? Why is everything taking so long? The thought pulsed in her temples, becoming a kind of torture.
It was a balancing act on the edge of madness: to stay perfect on the outside while everything inside burned out from impatience.
One evening Viktor came in so suddenly that Anya flinched. He didn’t even take off his coat. A gust of cold air came in with him, and his movements had that clipped, disordered haste of someone whose plans had just been torn apart.
He stopped short at the edge of the kitchen, and for a second it looked as if he’d forgotten why he had come in at all. His gaze fell on Anya, on the neatly set table, and something in his face tightened further instead of easing.
“Viktor? What happened?” Anya asked softly.
He did not answer at once. He looked away, jaw tense, then dragged a hand over his face.
“I have to leave,” he said at last. The words came out hard, as if dragged out of him. “Right now.”
She felt everything inside her draw tight.
“Leave?”
“Urgent call. The northern branch.” He spoke in short, jagged fragments, as if each one irritated him. “Critical failure. They brought me home to pack. The car is waiting outside.”
He broke off. His eyes flicked back to her, and for the first time there was a flicker of real disorientation in them—not because of the trip itself, but because of what it meant here, in this house.
“How long?”
For a moment he said nothing.
Then, quietly and with obvious strain: “Ten days.”
Even saying it seemed to disgust him. A second passed.
“Maybe more.”
He stood absolutely still, staring past her at nothing, as if his mind had hit a wall. Then he swore under his breath and ran a hand across his face.
“I need to pack.”
He went upstairs.
Several minutes passed in a strained silence.
When Viktor came back down, he had a suitcase in one hand and his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. He was moving quickly, but no longer with his usual precision; his attention seemed split now, as if some part of him had already left, while another had gotten stuck here.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He crossed the living room, reached the kitchen—and stopped dead.
His eyes went to the table. To the bread. To the refrigerator. Then to Anya.
“Damn it,” he said.
He set the suitcase down.
“Food.”
The word came out like an accusation—not at her, not even at the situation, but at the sheer existence of the problem.
“I was going to shop tomorrow.” He glanced toward the front of the house, then back at the kitchen. “There’s enough for a few days. Not for ten.”
He started pacing. Fast, sharp turns. A man cornered not by one problem, but by three at once.
“I can’t ask them to stop somewhere. I’m not going to sit in someone else’s car with bags of groceries for a place that’s supposed to look empty while I’m away.” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.
“Delivery...” he said a moment later, already hating the idea. He shook his head. “No. Out of the question. While I’m gone—no outsiders coming here. Couriers mean questions. Contact. Exposure. The gate would have to be opened, someone would have to deal with them... They’d see you here alone. I can’t control that remotely.”
He fell silent again. There was no time left. Even if he called a courier right now, the car waiting outside the gates wouldn’t wait, and groceries delivered to an empty house would raise too many questions. If he ordered delivery later, Anya would still have to open the door. Which meant the key had to stay with her. And once she had the key, telling her not to leave would mean nothing.
Viktor’s face twisted with tension.
A courier at the house. Unwanted questions. A stranger’s eyes. Anya alone with someone he did not know.
The decision was being dragged out of him by force, breaking through barriers so old and deeply rooted they had become instinct: he had to let her go out herself—not because he wanted to, but because otherwise he would be giving her the key while pretending he was still in control.
Slowly, with the look of a man forcing himself to betray his own rules, Viktor took out his wallet. Then the key to the front door.
For a moment neither of them moved. The key gave a dull glint under the light.
“Here’s money.” He put a stack of bills on the table, then, after a brief pause that seemed to cost him something, laid the key on top. “Use what’s in the house first. Stretch it as long as you can. If you absolutely have to go out, the store is around the corner. Buy only what you need and come straight back.”
Anya stood without moving. She was in genuine shock. She saw his fingers tremble as he let go of the key. For him, this decision was such a deep violation of his own rules that it seemed physical—an act of desperate, unwilling trust.
“Viktor…” she barely found the strength to speak. “You… you’re really letting me go out?”
“I want to believe I’m not making a mistake,” he snapped, and in that moment his face looked more like a condemned man’s mask. “Don’t make me regret it. Every move you make will be recorded. Remember that.”
Anya pulled herself together quickly. She lowered her eyes, putting on an expression of grateful submission.
“I’ll wait for you, Viktor. I’ll try to manage with what we have so I won’t have to go out unnecessarily. Come back soon. It will feel very empty here without you.”
Viktor pulled the tablet from his laptop bag, checked something on the screen, slipped it back inside, then threw Anya one last long, heavy look—the look of a man leaving a treasure in plain sight—and went out.
The door slammed.
Anya remained standing in the entryway. She slowly walked up to the front door and touched the keyhole with her fingertips.
You ran so fast, Viktor, you dropped your leash.
This is your greatest failure. You’re so afraid of losing your ‘value’ that you’re willing to risk your own safety. It hurt you to hand me this key, and now you’ll suffer every second of these ten days, staring at your phone.
But I won’t do what you expect. I won’t go off the rails. I won’t rush to the door five minutes after you leave. This is the final exam, and I’ll pass it perfectly.
I’ll sit here in this empty house under your cameras. I’ll ration every piece of bread. I’ll go to that store only if it’s absolutely necessary. I’ll make you believe this key is just a useless piece of metal—because I already belong to you anyway.
One step back, two steps forward. If I don’t cross that threshold while you’re gone, you’ll start taking me out yourself. Because you won’t have anything left to fear. Your property will have shown you that it no longer wants to run. So watch your cameras and wait. I’ll pass this exam so brilliantly that you’ll sign your own death warrant.