We've lived like this for days. Sleeping. Waking. Eating. Fucking. Waiting.
The knife hits the wood again. Same place. Same sound. What are we waiting for?
“If you wanted to leave a place like this.” My eyes stay fixed on the keys. My fingers hesitate. The lie tastes like ash. I should want to leave. I should be screaming for help. But the thought of the trailer, the empty hospital halls, and the cold silence of my old life makes my chest tighten more than this golden cage ever could. I’m not just his prisoner; I’m a prisoner of the way he makes me feel seen.
The blade stills.
“That's a dangerous question.”
“I didn't say I wanted to. Just… hypothetically.”
I hear him shift. The knife rolls once in his grip.
“Hypothetically, you don't run.” I glance back. He's watching me now, the dagger loose in his palm. “You stay. You learn the rhythms. Who moves when. Who looks away. Who hands you daggers that already belong to you.”
“And who do you trust?”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “You don't. Not fully.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It is.”
The knife leaves his hand again.Thunk.Same mark.
“But if you had to choose.” My fingers rest on the keys, silent. “One person. One weakness.”
He doesn't answer right away. He reaches into his sleeve and draws out another blade. This one is thin and narrow, more needle than knife. He balances it on his finger, steady, testing.
I watch his face while he does it. He isn't showing off. He's checking himself. Checking what the drugs left behind. Every throw is a measurement. Every strike in the wood is proof that Sergei didn't finish the job. He treats his own body like a weapon that needs to be reset. And for some reason, he's letting me see it happen.
His gaze sharpens. “You trust people who gain nothing from your fall. And you watch the ones who gain everything.”
I swallow. “And if the cage is… beautiful?”
“That's when it works best. Gold makes people forget it's still a lock.”
I turn around to face him. “What about betrayal?”
He doesn't hesitate. “Betrayal always comes from someone who thinks they're owed.”
“Owed what?”
He meets my eyes. “Power. Love. A future they weren't promised.”
The knife stays in his hand this time. He doesn't throw it.
“And you? If you wanted out.”
His expression softens to something close to honesty. “I wouldn't leave. I'd dismantle it. Piece by piece.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is. But it lasts.”
For a moment, the only sound is the snow brushing the window. Then he adds, quieter, “Why do you ask, krasavchik?”
I turn back to the piano. My fingers find the keys again. I don't know. I don't know why I'm asking. “Just trying to learn the rules.”
