She climbed confidently to the second floor. Her shoulders were straight, her breathing had steadied.
Viktor’s study greeted her again with the same cold hum of equipment. Monitors, power supplies, orderly folders. Everything was in its place; everything continued to live by his rules—even when he himself was no longer there.
Anya closed the door behind her, went to the chair, sat down, placed her palm on the mouse, and froze.
The thought came instantly, without warning: how did she die?
She imagined it. Two years ago. A camera. Night mode. A steady, indifferent image. And in that image—a girl.
Nausea hit her before the first click of the mouse. Her stomach clenched, acid burned her throat. Her body tried to force the very thought out of her.
Along with the nausea came images: the girl backing away in the darkness, searching for the wall with her hands, her voice straining toward a scream and breaking into a rasp. How she called—not Viktor, no, she called anyone: her mother, people, the air, God. How her palms struck the stone. Or did not strike it—because there was no strength left. How she cried, then stopped, then started again… and at some point there was only silence.
Anya involuntarily pressed her hand to her mouth. Her other hand went slack, nearly slipping from the desk.
I’m… sorry… flashed through her mind, like an echo of her own words there, in the garden, over the overturned bench. She had only just asked forgiveness from the one who lay under the ground. Only just promised that she would be found.
And now—to press “Play”?
No.
It would be like forcing her to die again, only this time not in the basement, but on the screen—under Anya’s gaze. It would not be the truth. It would be participation. Her second betrayal, only now conscious.
Anya jerked her hand away from the mouse as if it were hot.
She sat there, trying to swallow the nausea, and felt the trembling creeping toward her throat. No. She could not collapse now.
She slowly exhaled. Once. Twice. Clenched her fingers into a fist, then unclenched them.
Not here, she told herself silently. Not today.
She decided to leave the recordings and search the study.
Drawers, folders, envelopes. Stationery no one had touched in years. She did not know what she was looking for. She needed only one thing: for her fingers to work. That made it easier.
Behind the cabinet, she found a narrow panel matched to the color of the furniture. Anya ran her fingers along the edge, pressed—and the panel softly shifted away, revealing a dark metal safe recessed almost flush into the wall.
Viktor built even his hiding places into the house as if they were part of the order.
Anya looked at the keypad and froze for a second. His daughter’s date of birth had not worked on the phone. But what if? What if here, he had left something human?
She entered the digits. One. Two. Three. Four… Her fingers slid—and at that moment, as if in mockery, the lock gave a short, satisfied click.
Bingo.
The door eased open. Inside was a neatness that made her want to swear. Dense stacks, thick and green—dollars. Several documents in a plastic sleeve, aligned perfectly along the edge. Beside them, a ring of keys familiar to the point of horror. Her keys.
She scooped them up and shoved them into her pocket. Her fingers lingered for a second, testing the weight.
And the phone. Her old smartphone.
It lay on top—charged, even turned on: when she touched it, the screen lit with a pale glow. Anya picked it up and gave a bitter, crooked smile.
Of course. He had been running her social media. Uploading those generated videos so everyone would think she was traveling. He had pedantically kept her “virtual” life charged while the real one rotted here.
Anya carefully unlocked the screen. There was no network. She swiped down the notification shade, saw Airplane Mode turned on, stared at it in a stupor for several seconds… and then locked the device and put it in her pocket, close to her body.
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Then Anya took out “her” keypad phone and quickly dialed Artem’s number from memory.
The ringing cut into the hum of the computer equipment.
“Hello?”
“It’s… it’s me.”
“Anya, is that you?”
She nodded to herself.
“Yes. It’s me,” she breathed, and heard the tremor in her own voice.
“Are you all right? You never explained anything to me…”
“Yes, everything is fine. I’m alive…”
“Anya…”
“Later. I’ll tell you later.” She forced herself to speak quickly, evenly, to the point. “Come to Viktor D.’s house. Right now. And bring what I asked for. No questions. Understood?”
A pause. She could almost see him tightening his grip on the phone.
“Yes. Understood. I’m coming now. Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Don’t be late. When you get here, wait and don’t honk. I’ll come out myself.”
“All right. I… I’ll be there.”
She ended the call.
For several seconds, Anya stood looking at the phone. Then she shifted her gaze to the safe—to the money, the documents, all this “planning” of his life.
She decided to take the papers as evidence, and the money as payment.
In the kitchen, she took a thick garbage bag, returned to the safe, and cleaned it out completely: stacks, files, envelopes, some keys. From the edge of the desk, she swept his phone into the bag as well. The bag grew heavy, pulling her hand down, and rustled loudly.
She left the house and stopped by the porch, the bag in her hand. Cold air struck her face and hurt for a second. A minute later, beyond the fence, came the sound of an engine and the low whisper of tires.
Anya crossed the yard, opened the gate, and stepped out onto the street.
A car stood by the curb. Artem had already gotten out and was looking at her as if afraid that if he came any closer, she would fall apart.
“Anya…”
She quickly went to him herself and held out the bag. Artem took it automatically—and only then felt the weight.
“What is this?..”
“Take it. And give me what you brought.”
“Anya, maybe… the police? An ambulance?”
“Shut up!” she barked so sharply that he flinched. There was not only anger in her “shut up.” There was an order. There was hysteria driven into steel.
Artem saw her face—with those alien eyes—and swallowed his questions.
He opened the trunk, took out a one-liter bottle without a label, and carefully handed it to Anya.
“Here.”
Anya took it, her fingers tightening hard around it.
“Wait.”
“Anya, I can go with you, I—”
“I said wait.”
She turned and went back toward the house. In every step, there was the composure of a person who had planned everything long ago, but until now had simply been unable to carry it out.
Artem got behind the wheel and put the bag on the back seat.
The minutes dragged on.
Suddenly, a strange pale pulsing appeared in one of the second-floor windows. Artem leaned forward, unable to believe his eyes.
The light grew brighter. Orange ripples began dancing in the glass.
“What the…” he whispered to himself.
His hand reached for the door. He had almost opened it—when the gate swung open. Anya stepped out onto the street, closing it behind her as she walked. In one hand, she carried a thin laptop pressed to her side.
She came to the car and got in as if nothing had happened. Without saying a word, she placed the laptop on the back seat.
Artem looked at the window, then shifted his gaze to her.
“Anya?..”
She turned to him. There was no plea in her eyes, no explanation. Only an icy do not dare.
“Drive.”
He tightened his grip on the wheel, nodded, and pulled away. He felt sick with unease, but he kept the car steady.
They drove off. The house remained behind them; the orange light in the upper window flickered between the trees until it disappeared.
Anya took out her smartphone and turned off Airplane Mode. She turned to Artem and looked at him with a heavy, unblinking gaze.
“I’m going to call you now,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “You’ll answer. Speak quietly, as if nothing has happened, as if you have no idea where I am or what’s happened to me. I’ll ask for help and give you the address. You’ll agree to come. Understood?”
Artem swallowed. The whisper of the tires on the asphalt seemed, just then, like the only normal sound in the world. He gave a short nod.
She opened her contacts. Tapped his name.
Artem’s phone rang. He took it out, pressed “answer,” and brought it to his ear, feeling as if he were slowly losing his mind.
Anya pressed her smartphone to her cheek. Her voice suddenly dropped away, became quiet, hoarse, full of animal, paralyzing terror.
“Artem…” she whispered into the phone in a way that sent icy gooseflesh running down his back. “It’s me… Please… I’m scared… Can you come?”
He looked at her, sitting half a meter away in the dim light of the dashboard. The shock of what was happening squeezed his throat, but he forced himself to enter the game.
“Anya?” he answered hoarsely, gripping the wheel. His voice trembled with complete sincerity. “Anya, what happened? Where are you?!”
“I… I’ll tell you the address…” She drew in a convulsive breath, as if afraid someone in the dark might hear her. “Here… Please, take me away, get me out of here. Will you come?”
“All right…” he forced out, finally sinking completely into this horrifying performance. “Yes, Anya. I’m coming. Wait for me!”
She ended the call and, without allowing herself even a second of pause, dialed 112.
“Fire…” She was breathing heavily, unevenly into the phone. “The house is burning… Help… The address…”
She gave the address, ended the call, and dropped the smartphone onto her lap. Her face instantly became what it had been before—dry, detached, and calm. After that, she took out the keypad phone, removed the back cover with cold precision, and snapped the SIM card in two.
“And this phone will need to be smashed and thrown into the river,” she said evenly. “In pieces.”
The car fell quiet. Only the engine and their breathing could be heard—his and hers.
Artem kept looking ahead, but the words came out anyway.
“Anya… and those… things I gave you. With the SIM cards. What about them?”
She silently looked at the empty road and the dark roadsides. Then, calmly, without emotion, she said:
“Artem, forget it. You never gave me anything.”
For a moment, he froze and understood not the meaning, but the rule. And he did not ask again.
For several more seconds, there was only the sound of the engine.
“Are you… safe?” he asked, barely audibly.
She looked tiredly out the window.
“Yes. Now—I am.”