5
Clara
This isn’t a TV room. It’s a goddamn IMAX theater. Plush, red velvet seats stretch out in perfect rows, the kind of setup you’d expect in a high-end theater. The dim lighting hums low, making the giant screen in front of me glow even more, the edges blurred like something out of a surreal dream. Pikachu’s face—cheerful, obnoxiously yellow—fills the screen, the high-pitched voice echoing in this oversized underground room.
“Mommy, look!” Elijah’s voice chirps from the seat next to me. His little legs are swinging wildly, bouncing with excitement as his eyes are glued to the screen. He’s practically buzzing, his fists clenching and unclenching with every flash of action. Pikachu’s mid-battle and Elijah is living for it, his whole body moving like he’s right there, dodging attacks alongside his favorite character.
“Yes, baby,” I mumble, ruffling his curls. He grins, his legs kicking faster, bouncing off the edge of the plush chair like he’s gearing up to jump into the screen.
An hour.That’s all it’s been. But it feels longer. I straighten my back and glance over quickly at Dmitry sitting a few seats away. The giant is still as a statue, his eyes flicking toward Elijah every now and then like he’s keeping watch. It’s unsettling seeing someone his size so… relaxed.
Holding onto Elijah, I sink back into the seat, trying to focus. The sound system is insane.“Pikaaaaaa!!”
Mother of a… banana hammock-wearing, titty twister!
It’s like Pikachu is about to zap me personally; the booming audio makes my ears ring with each attack.
I shift in my seat, sinking deeper into the leather cushions that feel like they’re trying to swallow me whole.
Why aren’t they interrogating me? Tying me up?
Hell, at this point, I half-expected a blindfold, maybe some threats. Butno—here I am, sitting in a luxury cinema, watching Pikachu zap Team Rocket, while the two Bratva thugs who dragged me here sit close by, relaxed as if we’re just one big happy family.
Tilting my head slightly, I run a quick eye over the room, trying to focus on something besides the absurdity of my current situation. My brain’s on overdrive, calculating every damn detail:the way we were led down here in an elevator, the lack of windows, the plush carpets.
One thing’s for sure, this has to be an underground room, some sort of private space that Leonid—or whoever the fuck planned this—built to be out of sight. Out of reach. It’s modern, sleek. Like they had more money than sense when they built this place.
But how far down are we?How deep? The exits? None that I can see.
Straightening my posture, I subtly shift my body to get a better view of the room, pretending I’m stretching while my eyes darttoward the door. It’s far enough away that even if I tried to make a move, Dmitry or Joker would catch me before I reached it.
Then I feel it.
The weight of Joker’s stare, and I slowly turn to meet his gaze. He’s lounging a few rows back, his legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest, watching me like I’m the real entertainment, not the damn Pikachu marathon. His eyes glint with something, amusement maybe, or that creepy sense of knowing he seems to carry around like a fucking badge.
I tear my gaze away from him for a second, trying to ignore the feeling that I’m being studied like prey. But then I sense it—something shifting behind me. A shadow.
How the hell did he move so fast?
“Finding your way out?” His voice cuts through the noise of the movie, low and taunting.
I clench my jaw, refusing to show how much he just startled me. My eyes narrow as I turn to face him, keeping my expression as tight as possible.
“Fuck off,” I tell him.
He chuckles, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, like this conversation is the highlight of his day.
“Or maybe you’re wondering why we haven’t strung you up somewhere yet? Why we haven’t started with the blindfolds and the threats?”
Oh, this motherfucker is really digging in.
I stare at him, my mind half on escape routes, half wondering why I’m not already in some torture chamber.
“Yeah, why not?” I challenge. I’m not afraid of this asshole. Not in the way Ishouldbe.
He winks, the smirk never leaving his face. “Relax, Clara. We’re not monsters.”
He glances at Dmitry, who’s still seated near Elijah, his huge body looking out of place in this plush, luxurious setting.
