She sat on the kitchen floor, hugging her knees, and thought.
He snapped. And he snapped much sooner than I expected…
She had known he had that edge. Had suspected that one day the knife would stop being just an object on the table. But she had thought there would be some path toward it, some preparation, some transition. That she would have time to soften the landing with words, set explanations in place ahead of time, draw him in advance into the familiar scenario: family, rules, guilt, forgiveness.
But he had skipped over all of it at once—in one leap, without warning, without a pause, as if something had clicked inside him—and the man had disappeared.
I’m walking along the edge now, she thought dully. One mistake, and that’s it. No words will help. No tone. No smile. Next time, he may not stop.
She exhaled and raised her head.
I have to keep moving.
She got up and looked around. She noted where the knife lay, picked it up by the handle, and placed it by the sink, beside the other utensils. Then she picked up the sheet of paper. The streetlamp was still there on the white paper—crossed out by tea stains and smeared lines. She placed it on the edge of the countertop, near the sink.
Anya silently set the chair back in its place. Then she turned the table upright again. It creaked and settled so evenly that it seemed to be trying, on its own, to return to where it belonged. Next came the plate, the napkins. Without hurry, she wiped the tea from the floor and the countertop. Right now, she needed to restore the appearance of normality to this room. If the kitchen stayed overturned, then something had happened that would have to be talked about.
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When everything was shining again, she went upstairs to her room and opened the laptop.
Hidden-volume note:
Something strange happened today. I don’t understand why it happened this way. I did not break any rules. I did everything as he asked.
I think he is very tired. Perhaps he was simply tense, and it burst out of him. That happens when someone keeps everything under control for too long.
I don’t want to be afraid. I want to feel safe beside him. I know he knows how to protect. I believe he did not mean me harm.
It is important to me that he remain himself. The one who holds order in place. It is important for me to trust him. After all, his house is my home.
Then she went to his room and knocked quietly on the door.
“Viktor?” she said softly. “I want to go out for groceries. And… if I may, I’ll order us pizza. So that… the day can be normal.”
There was no answer. She waited one second, then another. Silence.
Anya swallowed, keeping the same questioning, obedient tone.
“I’ll get what we usually buy and come back quickly. If you’re against it, say so. If you stay silent… I’ll understand that I may go.”
Silence in response. She turned and went back to her room. Got dressed, threw on her jacket, and slipped the money into her pocket.
Outside, it was cold, and the noise cut at her ears, but that was exactly what steadied her.
At the store, she bought the usual things: bread, milk, something for dinner. Everything from the list, everything by the rules. At the checkout, she picked up a SIM card as well—separately, on another receipt.
On the way back, she turned into an alley so she could be alone for a minute, away from unnecessary eyes. She took out the keypad phone, quickly inserted the SIM card, and dialed the familiar number.
A ring.
“Hello?” Artem’s voice sounded wary.
“It’s me. I need your help again…”