She could have chosen not to work; she had enough money now—as if someone else’s life had, after all, paid her compensation. But money could not give her the one thing that mattered: the feeling that you existed again not as a case, but simply among people. Not as a news item, a story, or a pretty picture people discussed, but as a person who got up in the morning, went somewhere, grew tired, drank tea, listened to other people’s jokes, and came home—and that was happiness.
She got a job. Nothing flashy, nothing “meaningful”—an ordinary place, routine, a small department. All women. Six of them, almost all young. At first she kept quiet: did her work, smiled when she had to, said nothing unnecessary.
Unfortunately, quiet never lives long in places like that.
Little signals began to reach her: a laugh behind her back, a pause held too long, and then, “accidentally”:
“Our celebrity...”
Or:
“Well, of course. We’ve got a ‘star’ here now.”
Said in a way that could always be laughed off. Small, clingy jabs and digs. Anya pretended not to hear, unwilling to feed them.
One day after lunch, a new employee came over to her—the one who had started at the same time she had. They were about the same age, and their formal politeness had not yet had time to harden into distance.
“Anya, can I…?” she asked quietly, lingering by her desk.
Anya looked up.
“Yes?”
The girl hesitated, picking her words one by one, then exhaled.
“Listen... I don’t know if you need to hear this... but I’m going to tell you. Because I’d want someone to tell me.”
Anya tilted her head a little, silently: go on.
“In there...” The girl nodded toward the kitchen, where everyone usually gathered for tea. “She’s talking shit about you. You know... Lera. She says you’re ‘our celebrity,’ that you... that the whole thing is a circus. That you...” She swallowed. “That you were fooling around with some guy and then decided to turn it into a story.”
She said it quickly, as if to keep the words from sticking to her tongue.
Anya gave a short nod.
“Got it,” she said calmly.
“Don’t think I believe her. I don’t want you thinking we’re all like that. It’s her. She’s like that.”
Anya looked at her for a couple of seconds, and there was something plainly human in that look: I see.
“Thank you,” she said. “Really. I appreciate you coming to me.”
“I just...” The girl spread her hands. “It’s disgusting.”
“Yes, it is,” Anya agreed, and smiled faintly. “But it isn’t frightening.”
The girl gave her an uncertain smile in return.
“You’re not going to, well... be upset?”
“Don’t worry,” Anya said softly. “I’ve been through hell. I can handle a thirty-year-old viper.”
The girl breathed out—and only then allowed herself to relax.
Anya turned back to the screen. Her fingers settled evenly on the keyboard. She stared at the monitor as if she were simply reading lines and numbers, but that acquired, calculating coldness surfaced in her eyes again.
A month later, there was an ordinary office party—with cheap lighting and expensive attempts to “relax.” Anya did not drink. Reality was enough for her. She held herself evenly, smiled where it was expected, and watched—because she had already made her decision.
Over that month, she had managed to see Lera in work mode. Lera knew how to present herself: well-groomed, confident, with the right kind of smile. But the moment she began speaking to her subordinates, the smile became a tool. Her voice rose higher, sharper. Once a week, without fail, she would stage a “discussion” out of nowhere: a nitpick, a scene, a public remark—just so everyone understood where the boundaries were, and who drew them. It was not about work. It was about power.
Watching her, Anya noticed one particular habit: Lera always stayed in the restroom longer than the others. Every time, by a minute or two. It was as if she needed to be alone, to breathe out, to check herself in the mirror, to feel like the one in charge even there.
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At the party, Anya deliberately sat beside her, but in a way that looked natural: a crowded table, noise, everyone taking whatever seat they could. Lera gave her a brief, appraising look with a smile that held no warmth, then turned away at once—as if from a thing not worth her attention.
After that, everything went as usual: toasts, music, broken scraps of conversation, dancing, other people’s laughter that sometimes sounded too loud. Anya let all of it pass her by. She had other business. She was counting.
Counting how much Lera drank, how often she got up, what she ate. Over the month, it had become statistics: rhythm, intervals, habits. And tonight, Anya was not at a party. She was inside a task.
When the time came, Anya slipped away to the restroom, went into a stall, and froze. The music reached this place as a muffled thrum—the club night remained behind the door, while here another life began, sterile and separate. She breathed evenly and calmly, without nerves.
A few minutes later, others came in. They laughed, talked over one another, water ran, purse clasps snapped. Then they left one by one. The door banged shut, and their footsteps dissolved into the bass of the music. Only she remained—the woman who had been spreading filth about her.
Lera stood at the mirror, fixing her hair, tilting her head slightly left, then right, checking that everything was still perfect. Her lips moved—maybe she said something to herself, maybe she only breathed out. There was a kind of calm entitlement in the gesture: I am alone here.
Anya quietly opened the stall door and stepped out. She moved smoothly up to Lera and stood behind her. In the mirror, a second figure appeared—like an extra silhouette that should not have been there.
Anya moved fast. There was no hesitation in her, only pure kinetics. She seized Lera by the back of the head—her fingers driving into her hair at the roots, leaving her no room to move—and with a wet, meaty sound slammed her face into the mirror.
The glass cracked. The crash rang through the restroom and was swallowed at once by the bass from the party.
Lera gave a shrill cry, but the sound choked off.
Anya did not let go. She dragged Lera’s forehead along the sharp cracks, feeling the glass begin to cut skin. Then she quickly snatched up a small shard that had broken off and pressed it to her throat.
“Ah—”
“Quiet,” said Anya. Her voice was perfectly calm.
Lera froze. Her breathing turned into a hoarse, broken whistle. Blood from her split forehead began slowly creeping down the glass, mixing with the reflection of her eyes, wide with terror.
Anya pressed the shard a little harder and leaned closer to her ear.
“You really don’t understand who you’re spreading rumors about, do you?” Anya whispered.
“Anya... let me go...” Lera rasped, afraid to move.
“Be quiet.”
Anya tugged her lightly by the hair, forcing her to look straight into the shattered reflection.
“You think I spent a year down there crying?” There was no anger in Anya’s voice, no triumph. Only a cold, dead flatness. “The man who kept me in that basement was smarter, stronger, and more dangerous than you could ever be. And do you know how it ended for him?”
Lera swallowed convulsively, her eyes darting toward the shard.
“He ended up with a noose around his neck, Lera. Because I wanted him to. Because I. Wanted. Him. To.”
Anya ran the edge of the glass along Lera’s cheek, marking a line not to be crossed. Lera squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered.
“Now listen,” Anya went on, monotone, as if reciting instructions. “You are not just going to keep your mouth shut. You are going to start shutting down every rumor about me. Every word. Every whisper. Every mouth that opens about me. Is that clear?”
She pressed close to Lera’s ear, and her voice dropped to a serpent’s hiss.
“Otherwise you’ll slip in the restroom again. And they won’t find you right away.”
Anya suddenly released her grip and shoved her. Lera collapsed to the floor, shaking with violent, uncontrollable tremors. She clawed at the air, trying to breathe, staring up at Anya with absolute, primitive terror.
“I’ll tell them everything...” she tried to force out, choking on tears and humiliation. “I’ll... the police...”
Anya set the shard carefully on the edge of the sink. She took a cotton pad from her handbag, dampened it with antiseptic, crouched down, wiped Lera’s face, and then pressed the pad hard against the wound, making Lera jolt.
“What are you talking about, Lera?” Anya looked down at her. “You hit your head. Slipped. I actually helped you. See how kind I am?”
Lera stared at her in horror.
Anya straightened.
“But... you can try. Who do you think they’ll believe more? The victim of a maniac the whole country pities? The quiet, calm one who never has conflicts with anyone? Or you—the one who’s had it in for me from the very first minute, who spreads gossip about me and screams at her girls loud enough to shake the walls?”
Lera swallowed. Her eyes searched Anya’s face, trying to find even a drop of humanity there. They found none.
“What is it, Lera? Are you getting anxious now? Working yourself up? Pulse, hands, breathing, sweating...” She bent toward her again. “But I know—that’s how it’s supposed to happen... You do love hysterics, don’t you? You can’t live without them. And today...” Anya rolled her eyes and gave a faint smile, “today it might look especially convincing.”
With her fingertips, she touched Lera’s cheek—lightly and tenderly. Drew them down her skin slowly, as though wiping away her confidence.
“Especially...” she repeated softly.
“I... I...”
“What’s wrong, Lera? Finally losing the ability to speak properly?”
Lera went still. Then suddenly—as though she needed one single, comprehensible key, one explanation for everything:
“You... you...” She stumbled, and the words flew out by themselves, ugly and loud: “Did you slip me something?!”
Anya smiled—not happily. Like someone who had just heard exactly what she needed.
“You see,” she said quietly. “You said it yourself.”
Lera turned pale. For a second she was afraid not of Anya, but of her own tongue.
Anya stepped back, clearing the way for her, and her voice went entirely matter-of-fact.
“Go. Right now. And try not to say too much on the way.”
Lera sprang up, clutching the cotton to her face, and bolted out of the restroom.
Anya was left alone. For a few seconds she simply stood there, listening to the thin thread of water running in the sink. Feeling her throat finally loosen.
Then she looked at the mirror.
The reflection had broken into pieces, and in every piece there was her—a little different in each one, but equally empty. Anya walked up slowly and laid a hand against the glass, careful not to cut herself.
In one of the shards, her gaze caught her own.
There was none of that old brightness left in it. Only cold—icy, calculating cold.