A Captive of the Past

Chapter 1

Mia

“Your timeline is shrinking, David.”

The voice is smooth, like river stones worn down by a current. It doesn't belong in our cramped living room, with its water stained ceiling and threadbare couch. It belongs in a boardroom, or a penthouse. Not here. Not with us.

My father shifts his weight from one foot to the other. A nervous little dance I know all too well. “I know. I just need a few more days. I have a big one coming in, I swear. A sure thing.”

The man in the tailored grey suit, the one who does all the talking, smiles. It’s a polite, empty gesture that doesn’t reach his eyes. His partner, a mountain of a man in a black suit, remains silent by the door, his presence sucking the very air out of the room. He just watches. He always just watches.

“Sure things have a way of becoming unsure, David,” the man in grey says. He takes a slow look around our apartment, his gaze lingering on the peeling paint, the stack of final notice bills on the coffee table, and finally, on me. I stand by the kitchenette, my hands clutching the back of a wobbly chair, my knuckles white. I don't look away.

“The amount is significant now,” he continues, his eyes still locked on mine. It’s a deliberate tactic. Talk to the father, look at the daughter. A reminder of the collateral. “Mr. Petrov is a patient man. But his patience has a price. Interest, you understand, compounds daily. It grows. It consumes.”

My father’s face is slick with sweat. He runs a hand through his thinning hair. “I’ll have it. All of it. Friday. I promise.”

Promises. He builds houses out of them, flimsy structures that collapse with the slightest breeze. I’ve been living in the wreckage my whole life.

The man in grey finally breaks his gaze from me and turns back to my father. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out not a weapon, but a small, sleek cigarette case. He taps out a cigarette, the scent of expensive tobacco filling the stale air. His partner wordlessly produces a silver lighter. The flame clicks to life, a tiny, violent star in the dim room.

“You have a lovely daughter,” the man says, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “She works hard, I hear. At that little diner. Double shifts.”

My blood runs cold. They know where I work. The unspoken threat hangs in the smoke between us, thick and choking.

“Leave her out of this,” my father says, his voice a pathetic squeak of defiance.

The man in grey actually chuckles. A low, soft sound. “She is in this, David. She was in this the moment you put your signature on our paper. Everyone you love is in this. That is the point. That is the leverage.” He takes another drag from his cigarette. “Friday, David. We will come for the full amount. And if you do not have it… we will come to collect something of equal value.”

His eyes flicker to me one last time. A final, chilling appraisal.

Then, as if they were never there, they are gone. The silent one opens the door, and they step out into the hallway. The door clicks shut, leaving behind an echoing silence and the ghost of their cologne.

My father collapses onto the couch, his head in his hands. His shoulders shake with silent, useless sobs. I wait. I don't go to him. I don't offer comfort. The well of my sympathy ran dry years ago.

After a full minute, I speak. My voice is quiet, flat. “How much this time?”

He doesn't look up. “It’s under control, Mia.”

“How. Much.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. The steel in my tone is enough.

He mumbles a number into his hands. It’s a number so large it doesn't even sound real. It sounds like the population of a small country. My stomach twists into a tight, painful knot. That’s more than I could make in ten years of slinging hash and pouring coffee.

“They know where I work, Dad.”

He flinches, finally looking up at me. His eyes are bloodshot, filled with a familiar mix of desperation and shame. “I’ll handle it. I told you. I have a plan.”

His plans are what got us here. His plans are why Mom is gone. His plans are the bars of this cage. I stopped believing in his plans a long time ago. I unclench my hands from the chair, my fingers stiff. I have my own plan. It’s slower, more painful, but it’s real.

“I have to go to work,” I say, turning away from him. I can’t look at him anymore. If I do, I might say something I can’t take back. Or worse, I might start to feel sorry for him again, and that’s a luxury I cannot afford.

“Mia, wait…”

I don’t wait. I grab my worn coat and my purse from the hook by the door and walk out, leaving him alone with his debt and his ghosts.

The bell above the diner door chimes, pulling me from one circle of hell into another.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Todd sneers from behind the counter, not looking up from where he’s polishing a glass. “Ten minutes late, princess. I hope you enjoyed your beauty sleep.”

“Sorry, Todd,” I murmur, sliding past him and heading for the small staff room in the back.

“Sorry doesn't refill the coffee at table six,” he calls after me. “That’s coming out of your tips.”

I bite my tongue. Todd is my manager. He’s a man whose only source of power in his miserable life is the tiny amount of authority he wields over three waitresses and a line cook. He’s a rage baiter, a little tyrant in a stained apron, and I am his favorite target. He hates that I don’t react. He hates that I just absorb his insults with a quiet nod and get to work. My silence infuriates him, and I suppose, in a small, petty way, it’s the only revenge I ever get.

I tie my own apron on, the cheap fabric rough against my jeans. I stare at my reflection in the grimy little mirror. Dark circles smudge the skin under my eyes. My face is pale, drawn. I look like a ghost haunting the scene of her own slow death. The man in the suit was right. I work hard. I work until my feet swell and my back aches and my mind is a dull hum of orders. Bacon and eggs, coffee black, side of toast, cheeseburger deluxe, no onions. It’s a litany, a prayer to the god of just getting by.

I push through the swinging doors and step onto the floor. The diner is a blur of noise and smells. Sizzling bacon, burnt coffee, the low murmur of conversation. For the next eight hours, I can disappear. I can become a pair of hands, a voice that asks “More coffee?”, an efficient machine. I don’t have to be Mia, the daughter of a gambling addict. I can just be the waitress.

“Table four is waving you down,” Todd says, nudging me hard as he passes. “Try smiling. It’s supposed to be part of the uniform. Or does your face just do that naturally?”

I force my lips into something that resembles a smile and walk toward table four. I take their order, refill their waters, and move on. The hours blur together. I run on autopilot, my body performing the familiar dance of the double shift while my mind races. I count the money in my head. The secret money. The cash I skim from my tips and hide in a loose floorboard under my bed. It’s not much, just over two thousand dollars. But it’s a start. It’s a ticket. A one way bus ticket out of this city, to somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one knows my name or my father’s debts.

A place where men in expensive suits don’t look at me like I’m an item on a ledger.

During a rare lull, when the lunch rush has faded and the dinner crowd has yet to arrive, I lean against the wall in the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. My whole body aches with a fatigue that is more than just physical. My fingers unconsciously find the chain around my neck, tucked beneath the collar of my uniform.

I pull it out. A small, worn silver locket. It doesn't shine anymore. It's dented on one side and the clasp is weak. It was the last thing my mother gave me before the “accident.” Before a drunk driver, they said, ran her off the road.

I click it open. Inside, on one side, is a tiny, faded picture of her. She’s smiling, her eyes bright and full of a life that was stolen too soon. On the other side is a picture of me, a gap toothed kid with pigtails. The girl I was before I had to become the adult in our house.

My father’s gambling started right after she died. A little at first. A few dollars on a football game. Then more. Poker nights that lasted until dawn. Trips to tracks I’d never heard of. He said it was to numb the pain. But the numbness became an addiction, a disease that rotted our family from the inside out. It took our savings, our house, our hope. It took him from me, leaving behind this hollowed out stranger who made promises he could never keep.

I clutch the locket so tight the edges dig into my palm. The cool metal is a comfort, a tangible link to a better time, a better life. It’s my secret, my hope. A reminder of what I’m fighting for.

“Just a little longer,” I whisper to the tiny smiling face in the locket. “I’m almost there. Just hold on a little longer.”

I’m saving myself, because no one else will.

“What are you doing back here?” Todd’s voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and grating. “If you have time to lean, you have time to clean. The ketchup bottles aren’t going to refill themselves.”

I quickly tuck the locket back under my shirt, the metal cold against my skin. “Sorry, Todd.”

He squints at me, his beady eyes filled with suspicion. “Get back to work. And tuck that cheap necklace in. This is a place of business, not a flea market.”

I nod, my face a blank mask, and push past him, the weight of the locket suddenly heavy against my chest. It feels less like a comfort now and more like an anchor. Another thing I could lose.

The rest of the shift passes in a haze. By the time I’m wiping down the last table, my bones feel like they’re made of lead. Todd counts my tips, his lips moving silently, before he shoves a wad of crumpled bills into my hand. He’s shorted me again. I know he has. But I’m too tired to fight. I just take the money and stuff it in my pocket.

“Don’t be late tomorrow,” he says as I grab my coat. “We wouldn’t want to have to find a replacement, would we?”

I don’t answer. I just push the door open and step out into the cold night air. The city lights feel harsh, unforgiving. Every shadow seems to hold a threat. I pull my coat tighter and start the long walk home, my footsteps echoing on the empty sidewalk.

As I turn onto my street, a knot of dread tightens in my gut. A black sedan is parked across from my building. It’s the same model as the one the men in suits use. Sleek, dark, and utterly out of place in our crumbling neighborhood. My heart starts to pound against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.

Are they back already? It isn’t Friday. My pace quickens, a cold fear chasing me down the block. I just want to get inside, lock the door, and check on the money under the floorboard. Just seeing it, counting it, makes it feel real. Makes the escape feel possible.

I reach my apartment building’s front door, fumbling for my keys, my hands shaking. I glance up at our window on the third floor. It’s dark. Dad always leaves the living room light on for me. Always. A single, terrifying thought slices through my exhaustion. Something is wrong.

Chapter 2

Mia

My keys feel like ice in my hand. I jab one at the lock of the main building door, my fingers clumsy and stiff. It takes three tries before the tumbler clicks. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet street.

The lobby smells of damp concrete and boiled cabbage. I ignore the wheezing groan of the elevator and take the stairs, my worn sneakers silent on the linoleum. Two steps at a time. The silence from my apartment is a living thing, a predator waiting on the third floor landing.

The door to our unit, 3B, is not closed. It hangs open a few inches, a dark, gaping mouth. A sliver of blackness where there should be the warm, yellow light my father always leaves on.

My hand trembles as I push it open.

Chaos. That is the only word for it. The couch cushions are slashed, their cheap foam guts spilling onto the floorboards. The drawers from the little sideboard are pulled out and overturned, a pathetic collection of mismatched cutlery and take out menus scattered like fallen leaves.

A picture frame lies shattered on the floor. I see the cracked glass before I see the image beneath it. My mother. Smiling. Her face is fractured into a dozen pieces. A sharp, hot pain lances through my chest, fiercer than any fear.

“Dad?” My voice is a whisper, swallowed by the wreckage.

I step carefully over the debris, my eyes scanning every corner. The small kitchenette is destroyed. A bag of flour was ripped open, dusting every surface in a fine white powder, like a bitter, mocking snow.

“Dad, are you here?” I call out a little louder, my voice still shaking.

Silence answers me. A deep, profound silence that confirms what the cold knot in my stomach already knows. He is gone.

I move toward my bedroom, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. Maybe he’s hiding. Maybe he’s hurt. The door is closed. I turn the knob and push.

My room is untouched. The bed is neatly made. The small stack of books on my nightstand is undisturbed. My secret floorboard, the one hiding my escape fund, looks secure. A wave of relief, so potent it makes me dizzy, washes over me. It is quickly followed by a fresh wave of terror. They didn’t want things. They wanted him.

I back out of my room, my mind racing. I need to call someone. The police? What would I say? My gambling addict father is missing and our apartment is trashed? They would take one look at our address and file it under ‘who cares’.

I turn back toward the living room, and my breath catches in my throat.

They are there.

They stand in the doorway, blocking the only exit, as if they materialized from the shadows themselves. The mountain of a man in the black suit, and the one in grey. The talker.

“Good evening, Mia,” the man in the grey suit says. His voice is still perfectly calm, perfectly smooth. It makes the hairs on my arms stand up. “I’m sorry you have to see your home in such a state. My apologies. We were looking for something.”

I say nothing. I just stand there, a statue in the center of my ruined life. My mind is strangely clear. The panic has receded, replaced by an icy, sharp focus. I note the crease in his trousers. The shine on his Italian leather shoes. The brand of cigarette he pulls from his case. A Gitanes. French. The blue box is distinctive.

“It seems your father was unable to locate what we were looking for,” he continues, lighting the cigarette. The smoke curls toward the ceiling. “And, regrettably, he was also unable to locate our money.”

“Where is he?” I ask. My voice comes out steady. Colder than I expected.

The man takes a slow drag from his cigarette. “David is… helping us with our inquiries. At another location. He has proven to be a poor investment. A liability.”

He takes a step into the room. The big man stays put, a silent monolith guarding the door.

“Assets and liabilities,” the man in grey says, his eyes roaming over me. That same chilling appraisal from before. “That is how the world works. Your father, he is all liability. You, however… you are an asset.”

He is talking, but I am listening to the sound of his voice, not just the words. There is an accent there, buried under the polished English. It’s subtle, but I can hear it now. A slight Slavic cadence. A hard edge on his vowels.

“Your father offered you to us, you know,” he says conversationally. “To clear his slate. A daughter for a debt. It’s a classic story.”

My stomach turns to ice. Even after everything, that confession hits me like a physical blow. He would sell me. He would actually sell me.

“Mr. Petrov, however, does not deal in such crude exchanges,” the man says. “He prefers a more structured arrangement. You are not payment, Mia. You are leverage. A guarantee that your father will become much more… cooperative.”

He is only a few feet away from me now. I can smell the expensive cologne mingling with the French tobacco.

“It is time to go,” he says. It is not a request.

The silent man moves. He steps forward, his huge hands reaching for me.

My mind screams. Run. Fight. Scream.

But my body does none of those things. Instead, in a single, fluid moment, a decision clicks into place. A desperate, insane gamble.

“I dropped my keys,” I say, my voice a little breathless.

I bend down, my eyes scanning the floor as if searching. My hand goes to my throat, to the thin silver chain I always wear. My fingers find the weak clasp. It takes a fraction of a second. The locket is in my palm, its familiar weight a final, silent goodbye.

I pretend to spot my keys near the wall, by the old cast iron radiator that hasn’t worked in years. I move toward them, my body shielding my hand from their view.

As I crouch to pick up the keys, I let the locket slip from my fingers. It lands on the dusty floor with a soft metallic click that only I can hear. With the side of my shoe, I give it a tiny, deliberate nudge. It slides into the dark space under the radiator, hidden from a casual glance.

A message. A clue. A piece of me left behind. For who, I don’t know. Maybe for no one. But I could not leave without leaving something.

I stand up, the keys clutched in my hand. “Found them.”

The man in the grey suit smiles. A real smile this time, tinged with something like approval. “Clever girl. Now, come along. Let’s not make this unpleasant.”

I walk toward them. I don’t fight when the big man takes my arm. His grip is like iron, but not painful. It is simply absolute.

As we step out into the hallway, the man in grey pulls a black cloth bag from his coat pocket. It looks like velvet.

“A precaution,” he says softly. “Please don’t struggle.”

He slips it over my head. Darkness. Total and complete.

My other senses scream to life. The smell of the hallway, stale and dusty. The sound of our footsteps echoing on the stairs. The feel of the big man’s hand firm on my back, guiding me forward. I count the steps down. Forty eight.

The cold night air hits my face, even through the cloth. I hear the distant city traffic. A car door opens. The sound is heavy, solid. A German car, maybe. An Audi or a Mercedes.

I am pushed gently inside, onto a smooth leather seat. A door closes on my left. Another door closes on my right. The man in grey gets in the front passenger seat. I hear the click of his seatbelt.

The engine starts with a low, powerful purr. The car pulls away from the curb, smooth and silent.

I sit perfectly still in the dark. I regulate my breathing. In for four, out for four. My mother, the nurse, taught me that. To calm a patient. To calm myself.

“She is quiet,” a new voice says. The driver. His accent is thicker than the other man’s. Russian, maybe.

“She is intelligent,” the man in grey replies from the front seat. I can hear the smile in his voice. “She understands that noise is a useless expenditure of energy.”

A moment of silence. I feel their eyes on me, even though I cannot see them.

“It is not natural,” the driver says, his tone uneasy. “She should be crying. Or screaming. This stillness… it is unnerving.”

“Let it unnerve you,” says the man in grey. His voice is a low murmur, a stream of smoke in the darkness. “It means her mind is working. And that is exactly what Mr. Petrov is counting on.”

I don’t know who Mr. Petrov is. I don’t know where I am going. I only know the facts I have gathered. A black sedan. A Gitanes cigarette. A Slavic accent. And a small, worn silver locket, waiting silently in the dust under a cold radiator.

Chapter 3

Mia

The drive is not long. The darkness of the hood is absolute, a void that heightens everything else. The soft hum of the engine, the whisper of leather as the man in grey shifts in the front seat, the faint, lingering scent of his French cigarettes.

I count the turns. Right, left, another right. Then a long, straight stretch before the car begins to descend. A ramp. We are going underground. The air changes, growing cooler, tasting of concrete and damp earth.

The car stops. The engine cuts, and the silence that follows is heavy, oppressive.

“We are here,” the man in grey says. His voice is the only familiar thing in this black world.

A door opens. The big man’s hand is on my arm again. He guides me out. My feet find solid ground. The air is still, and cold. I hear the distant, metallic clang of a heavy door swinging shut, the sound echoing as if in a vast chamber.

“The hood,” the man says. A moment later, light floods my vision. I blink, my eyes watering against the sudden brightness. The world swims back into focus.

We are in a vault. Not just any vault. This is the heart of a dead bank. A colossal circular door of polished steel, thick as I am tall, stands open behind us. The walls are marble, veined with grey and gold, reflecting the cold light of recessed modern fixtures. The floor is a checkerboard of black and white stone, gleaming under a recent polish.

And at the far end of the chamber, where tellers once counted cash, is a small, elevated stage. Standing on it is a man in a tuxedo, talking to another in low tones. Before the stage, dozens of small, candlelit tables are arranged. They are occupied by men and a few women, all dressed in expensive, dark clothing. Their faces are mosaics of shadow and light, their voices a low, predatory hum.

The smell of cigar smoke and perfume hangs in the air, a cloying mix of power and decay.

“This way,” the man in grey says, his hand on my back. A gesture that is not guidance, but a command.

He leads me not toward the stage, but to a small, heavy door to the side. We enter a small room, furnished with a single velvet armchair and a gilded mirror. It is a waiting room. A dressing room for the condemned.

“Do not speak unless you are spoken to,” he instructs me, his eyes cold and flat in the mirror’s reflection. “Do not make a scene. Your cooperation will make this entire process smoother. For you, and for your father.”

I meet his gaze in the mirror. I give him nothing. Just a blank, steady stare. My silence is a shield. It is the only armor I have left.

His lip curls in something between a smirk and a sneer. “Defiance is an interesting quality. Some find it… appealing. Others prefer to break it. Let us hope tonight’s winner is the former.”

He turns and leaves, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. I am alone with my reflection. A pale girl in a cheap waitress uniform, looking utterly out of place in this gilded cage. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. I press a hand to my chest, willing it to slow. In for four. Out for four. My mother’s voice, a ghost in my memory. Stay calm. Observe.

I catalogue the room. No windows. One door. The mirror is bolted to the wall. There is no escape. There is only the stage.

The door opens again. The big, silent man is back. He gestures for me to come out. My legs feel like lead, but I force them to move. One foot in front of the other. I walk out of the room and he leads me toward a small set of steps at the side of the stage.

As I ascend, a hush falls over the room. The low hum of conversation dies. Dozens of pairs of eyes turn to me. I feel their gazes like physical things, crawling over my skin, assessing me. Measuring my worth.

The auctioneer, the man in the tuxedo, turns. He has a handsome, cruel face and teeth that are too white. He gives me a smile that does not touch his eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, his voice amplified by some unseen microphone. It booms through the vault, smooth and practiced. “Our final lot for the evening. A special acquisition.”

He walks over to me, taking my arm and turning me to face the crowd. His touch is revolting. I stand rigid, my chin held high. I will not let them see me tremble.

“Lot number seven,” the auctioneer continues, his voice dripping with theatrical charm. “As you can see, she is young. Healthy. Unblemished.” He runs a hand down my arm, and I flinch, unable to help myself. A low chuckle ripples through the crowd.

“But this is not just a purchase of the flesh,” he says, his smile widening. “The winning bidder will also acquire the significant debt of her father, David Miller, currently held by our esteemed colleague, Mr. Ivan Volkov. She is not just a girl. She is a key. A guarantee of compliance. A beautiful piece of leverage.”

My blood turns to ice. So that’s the game. My father’s debt is the chain, and I am the lock.

My eyes scan the crowd, searching for the man who now owns my father. I find him at a front table. He is broad, with a shaved head and eyes like chips of granite. A jagged scar cuts through one of his eyebrows. He raises his glass to me, a slow, deliberate gesture. A predator toasting his prey. This is Ivan Volkov. The man from my worst nightmares.

“We will start the bidding at five hundred thousand,” the auctioneer announces.

Immediately, a hand goes up in the back. “Five hundred.”

“Six hundred,” another voice calls out.

“Seven fifty,” says a man at a table near Ivan Volkov.

Ivan just watches, a lazy smile on his lips. He lets them play. The price climbs quickly. Eight hundred. Nine. One million. The numbers are meaningless. They are abstract sounds that represent the sale of my life.

“One point five million,” Ivan Volkov says. His voice is a low gravelly rumble. He doesn’t raise a hand. He doesn’t need to. Everyone knows his voice.

The bidding stalls. The other players hesitate. Challenging Ivan Volkov is a dangerous proposition.

“One point five million,” the auctioneer repeats, his eyes sweeping the room. “A fine bid from Mr. Volkov. Do I hear one point six?”

Silence.

“A bargain, gentlemen, for such perfect leverage. Think of the possibilities.” The auctioneer’s voice is a seductive purr. “Going once…”

My stomach twists. This is it. I am going to belong to that man with the dead eyes and the cruel smile.

“Going twice…”

I close my eyes. I picture my mother’s face in the locket. Her smile. I try to hold onto it, a tiny point of light in the overwhelming darkness.

“Two million.”

The voice is new. It comes from a man at a side table, half hidden in shadow. Ivan Volkov turns his head slowly, his smile gone. He stares at the challenger.

“Two point five,” Ivan says, his voice now laced with irritation.

“Three,” the other man says immediately.

Ivan slams his glass down on the table. The sound makes me jump. “Five million.”

The room is utterly silent now. Everyone is watching. This is no longer an auction. It is a duel.

The auctioneer looks from Ivan to the man in the shadows, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “Five million from Mr. Volkov. Do I hear…”

He doesn’t get to finish.

The massive steel vault doors at the back of the room begin to swing open. They move without a sound, a testament to their perfect engineering. Two figures are framed in the opening.

A man steps into the room. He is tall and impeccably dressed in a black suit so perfectly tailored it looks like a second skin. He moves with an unnatural grace, a quiet confidence that radiates pure, undiluted authority. The air in the vault grows colder. The silence deepens, becoming heavy, breathless.

Every person in that room, men who looked like killers and kings, shrinks in his presence. Even Ivan Volkov looks tense, his hand hovering near his jacket.

The man walks forward, his polished shoes making no sound on the marble floor. He does not look at the auctioneer. He does not look at Ivan Volkov. His eyes, a startling, pale grey, find mine and lock onto them. His gaze is so intense it feels like a physical touch, a brand against my skin. There is something in his eyes I cannot read. Not cruelty. Not desire. Something else. Something ancient and furious.

The auctioneer seems to find his voice, though it is thin and strained. “Mr. Petrov. We… we were not expecting you.”

The man, Aleksandr Petrov, does not break his stare from me. He speaks, and his voice is not loud, but it cuts through the silence like a shard of ice.

“Twenty million.”

A collective gasp ripples through the room. It is not a bid. It is an execution. A number so absurd, so final, it shatters the entire proceeding.

Ivan Volkov pushes his chair back, his face a mask of disbelief and rage. “Petrov. You have no business here. This is a Volkov matter.”

Aleksandr Petrov finally turns his gaze from me to Ivan. The sheer coldness in his eyes makes Ivan flinch. “Everything in this city is my business. And you,” Aleksandr says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “have just been outbid.”

He turns his attention to the auctioneer, who looks pale and shaken. “Is the sale concluded?”

The auctioneer swallows hard, nodding frantically. “Yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Petrov. Going once, twice…” He fumbles for his gavel and brings it down with a sharp crack that echoes like a gunshot in the silent vault.

“Sold. To Mr. Aleksandr Petrov.”

Aleksandr Petrov gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod. He looks at me one last time, his expression unreadable, before turning and walking back out through the vault doors as silently as he arrived.

I stand on the stage, trembling, my mind reeling. I have been bought. Not by the monster I could see, but by the devil I did not know existed. The man in the grey suit appears at my side, his face ashen. He no longer looks smooth and in control. He looks terrified.

“Come,” he says, his voice a shaky whisper. “Mr. Petrov is waiting.”