A sharp wind hit her as she stepped outside, but she barely felt it. A wad of cash burned against her fingers in her pocket, and a clear, calibrated plan pulsed in her head. She walked into a small electronics shop on the corner, where a sleepy clerk didn’t even look up from his monitor.
“Just a basic keypad phone. And two SIM cards from different carriers. No registration,” she said, laying down the bills.
Five minutes later she was sitting in a secluded corner of a small park. Her fingers quickly slid both cards into the cheap plastic phone. She dialed a number from memory—rhythmic and simple; Artem had always bragged it was easy to remember.
The rings went on for a long time. Finally, a wary voice came through the receiver:
“Yeah? Who’s this?”
“Artem, is that you?” Anya tried to keep her voice calm, but firm.
“Anya?” There was a pause on the other end.
“Yeah. Or did you already get me out of your head after our run-in at the supermarket?” She allowed herself a light smirk.
“Are you kidding? You’re all I’ve been thinking about. Listen, Anya… this is weird. You looked… off. And honestly, I couldn’t let it go. I’ve got a machine-learning friend—I showed him your ‘Paris’ photos. He says there’s a ninety-percent chance they’re deepfakes and AI-generated. Anya, what’s going on?”
Anya closed her eyes. Artem was closer to the truth than she’d hoped.
“That doesn’t matter right now. Listen to me carefully. Do you remember that house where your car broke down half a year ago?”
“Wait—how do you know about that?”
“Do you remember it or not?”
“Yeah… more or less. A gloomy mansion behind a fence. But—”
“I need you to find out everything about the owner of that house. You know how to dig up information. I need the tiniest details. But the main thing is his daughter.”
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“His daughter?” Artem repeated. “What are you—”
“Everything,” she cut him off. “When she was born, what illnesses she had, whether there were any mental or physical problems. Exactly how she died. I need the autopsy report, the burial place, the date. Who she was friends with, what games she liked to play, what she loved. Her behavior, mannerisms, habits—what she liked to eat and what she didn’t—absolutely everything, Artem. Every scrap of her life, every detail, any insignificant little thing. And one more thing, Artem. You have to go to her grave yourself, understood? See it with your own eyes. Is that clear? And… dig it up. See what’s in the coffin…”
A dead, ringing silence filled the line. The only sound was Artem’s heavy, raspy breathing.
“Dig it up?..” His voice wavered, dropping to a whisper. “Anya, are you… are you serious right now? You’re asking me to take a shovel and open a grave? That’s… madness. It’s straight-up criminal—desecration. Do you even understand what you’re saying?”
“I don’t have time for sentiment,” she cut in hard, feeling time slipping through her fingers. “To hell with ethics and the law. I need the truth. Just do it.”
“Just do it?!” Artem nearly choked on indignation. “You’re asking me to commit a crime? And everything else… digging through someone else’s dirty laundry. I can’t just call in favors from well-connected people for this. I need a real reason to take that kind of risk.”
Anya opened her eyes and looked up at the gray clouds overhead.
“My life—is that a good enough reason for you?”
Artem’s voice changed instantly. The fear and outrage vanished; only a grim, cold understanding remained.
“Anya, what… Are they holding you there? Threatening you? I’ll call the police right now or come myself!”
“No!” she cut him off sharply. “No police. Under no circumstances. And don’t show up there—you’ll only ruin everything. Just do what I’m asking. Can you handle it? Can I rely on you? Are you still my friend or not?”
Silence settled on the other end. Then she added quietly:
“Artem, if you do this, you can ask me for anything—so long as it isn’t a debt without end.”
She heard him exhale.
“Fine. I’ll find out everything I can. Give me time.”
“Great. And one more thing… give me the number for some food delivery place that’s open right now. A pizza place or something. Quickly.”
Artem, stunned by the abrupt change of subject, read out the number of a local pizza chain.
“Got it.”
“Anya, wait!” he shouted, as she was already about to hang up. “How do I reach you?”
“I’ll call you myself. Don’t look for me.”
She pressed “end call” without a flicker. With a quick motion she pulled out the first SIM card and, without thinking, tossed it into a deep trash can.
Then she switched to the second card and dialed the pizzeria.
“Hello. Two large Meat Lover’s pizzas delivered to this address…” she read out Viktor’s address clearly. “Yes, I’ll pay cash. I’ll be waiting.”
Anya rose from the bench. There was a strange, predatory pride in her stride now. She was walking “home,” carrying ordinary groceries in a bag—and in her head, the ticking mechanism of a bomb that would have to blow Viktor’s world apart from the inside.